


Drag Me Down

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Cutting, Demon!Peter, Hellhound!Derek, Hunter!Stiles, M/M, Monster of the Week, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 71,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles sells his soul to save his father. With only a year to live and a hellhound bodyguard, Stiles makes the most of what time he has left doing what he does best: keeping Beacon Hills safe with his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this post/gif set/prompt](http://sher-lokied.tumblr.com/post/70797312033/teen-wolf-au-hellhoundderek-and-humanstiles) by [sher-lokied](http://sher-lokied.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. I think they might have changed the post since I started writing it (I had copied it down in a notebook), and I've certainly taken a few liberties in the writing. The prompt I have is:
> 
> Stiles' father dies during an armed robbery at the local bank, so he makes a deal with a crossroads demon to bring him back in exchange for one year only. Twelve months later, the demon sends his hellhound to take the boy, but things don't go exactly as planned. Somehow, in the middle of this situation, the hellhound fell for the human boy.

Sitting near the gravestone was surreal. The bright green of the cemetery grass against the dark gray of an oncoming storm blurred into the smeared colors of an impressionist painting. Those gathered around the hallowed ground, the hollow hole, soon to be filled—they, too, were smudges of color. Dark green sheriff formals, black mourners. Swaths moving with all the focus of a broad brushstroke.

It might have been shock.

It was most likely the tears that refused to fall.

The only thing that felt real was the small weight of metal in his pocket, its edges biting into his skin where he gripped it tight. His father’s badge—the one the station staff let him keep.

The reverend’s voice droned, a distant hum echoing in the back of his mind despite his proximity. He was the only living family member of the deceased, but some bonds ran deeper than blood or the law. His best friend and his best friend’s mother sat with him to fill what would have otherwise been empty chairs for immediate family.

Melissa was a second mother, Scott his brother. It was only fitting.

Nearby sat their family forged from blood and shadow.

Chris and Allison Argent, still picking up the pieces from how their family fractured barely two years before when Allison’s mother died; and Natalie and Lydia Martin, always trying to keep them together, trying to keep them sane.

Over the brim of the stained wood of the coffin sat the staff who had become family through service and sacrifice.

Clarke, Thompson, Miller, Parrish. People who had helped him with his homework while his dad worked late, people who entertained his endless chatter, people who handled him with care and compassion in the wake of his mother’s death.

They mourned. With black ribbons halving their badges and black bands around their arms, they honored their fallen sheriff. Voices in various stages of grief followed the reverend in prayer, but his was a wet mumble, lips hardly moving now for how often they ran in happier, brighter times.

_Poor boy._

_He’s so young._

_Will he be okay?_

If only they knew. _If only they knew._

He wanted to scream.

It wasn’t until a cool hand cupped his warm cheek that Stiles even realized the service had ended. Beyond Melissa’s worried, tear-stained expression, he could see the cemetery staff climbing into the yellow construction equipment that would bury his father’s coffin. Her thumb traced the swollen flesh beneath his eye.

“What?” he asked, zeroing in on her glassy gaze.

“We should go,” she said. “It’s about to storm.”

Stiles shook his head, but stood from his seat near the headstone with his mother’s name engraved in its face, weatherworn in the years since her passing. Beside it, his father’s was freshly cut. At least they were together again.

“I want to stay a bit longer,” Stiles murmured, gaze drifting to where the bulldozer’s engine fired to life. “Alone.”

“Stiles.”

Chris approached them and stood at Melissa’s side, Natalie coming to hover nearby as well. The parents worried for one of their own. But Stiles wasn’t their own. Stiles was his father’s. And his father was gone. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. I know—I know how hard it can be, how overwhelming it all is. But you need to be with people who care about you.”

Stiles clutched his father’s badge until his hand trembled.

“Come home with one of us,” Allison added. When had she and the others approached? He didn’t even know. “An empty house surrounded by memories isn’t a good place right now.”

“We have a spare bedroom,” Lydia murmured. Stiles knew she felt guilty—predicting his father’s death mere moments before it happened. Stiles knew she blamed herself, and part of him blamed her, too. What good was being a banshee if she couldn’t help the people important to her? “It’s yours if you want it.”

“Same,” Scott said.

It all sounded so easy.

They all knew loss. They all knew pain. They all knew what it felt like to have everything they knew upended in the blink of an eye. But it wasn’t the same. Scott still had his mom, even if his dad had taken off. Same with Lydia. And though Allison’s mother’s death was unexpected, she still had her dad. They all still had someone. Even when his mother died, Stiles still had his father. It hurt, but it was something. And now he had nothing.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand.

He was barely eighteen, and he was an orphan.

“I know,” Stiles admitted. “I know. And I will. I just…I just need a little more time, okay? I mean, just here, by myself, with them.” He gestured to his par—the headstone. “I’ll, um, I’ll follow someone home when I’m ready. I just—”

Natalie nodded. “We’ll wait by the cars, then. Take all the time you need.”

Stiles watched them, their ragtag bunch of monster hunters, as they descended the slight hill towards their parked cars, Stiles’ blue Jeep among them. He would have felt bad making them wait for him in any other circumstance. But he wasn’t ready to leave his dad, for his dad to leave him, yet.

Not yet.

Stiles woke gasping, tangled in his sheets with a bruising grip over his own heart.

With dreams so vivid, he sometimes wondered if _he_ was the banshee, and Lydia was just the scream he could never get out of his throat.

 

###

 

He was ready to die. They all were.

Their story started in the typical boy-meets-girl sort of way. Allison was the new girl in town, and Scott met and fell in love with her sophomore year. Allison and Lydia, Stiles’ long time crush, became fast friends. Through their friendship, and Scott’s budding romance with Allison, Stiles originally thought he might finally have a shot with Lydia. It was supposed to be simple, easy.

Then Mr. Argent came home one night covered in blood while the four of them were studying for an upcoming chemistry exam. In his hand, a crossbow; across his back, a rifle. His clothes were torn, and he was exhausted. Mrs. Argent ushered him away from the children, and despite Allison’s obvious worry, they were all sent to her room until things calmed. There, beneath a trio of questioning eyes and concerned faces, Allison eventually revealed the real reason she and her family had moved to Beacon Hills: they were a family of monster hunters.

A rogue alpha werewolf had been terrorizing the length of California and they’d followed it all the way from San Francisco. The area was known to have magical properties, so Beacon Hills seemed the most likely place for it to settle and try to build a pack.

Lydia frowned pityingly. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s hard seeing someone you love hurt like that.”

Scott offered a weak laugh. “He’ll be fine. Maybe he just crossed paths with some drunk.”

Stiles was the only one to believe her. He had a knack for lying—doing it and catching others in the act. Allison hadn’t been lying. Before they left for the night, Stiles placed a hand on her shoulder and asked, “How do we protect ourselves? Our families?”

She gave him a digital copy of her family’s bestiary on a discrete thumb drive. “Read it.”

Cue animal attacks in the news and maimed bodies that kept his dad away at all hours. Cue Stiles’ damnable curiosity and a night wandering the woods with Scott. Cue the attack.

Red eyes. Vicious howls. A wound that shouldn’t have healed as quickly as it had.

“Dude, you got bitten by a werewolf,” Stiles told Scott the following morning.

Scott scoffed. “You said so yourself—there are no wolves in northern California.”

“Yeah, but your girlfriend said there were _were_ wolves in northern California. Specifically Beacon Hills. Totally different.”

“There’s no such thing as werewolves.”

Stiles let it go. “Right.” But he knew what he’d seen.

He tried to coach Scott with what research he’d done and the Argent bestiary. Tried to keep him calm, tried to keep him from hurting anyone. It took Scott shifting in the middle of an argument with Stiles and clawing his wrist in a desperate grab for him to believe—despite his heightened senses and inexplicable physical strength. It sucked wearing layers through the lingering heat of fading summer.

Stiles still rubbed his wrist, sometimes, the scars pink against his pale skin despite how long it had been since they healed.

When Lydia was attacked by the ‘mountain lion’—the official report for the maimed bodies and half-eaten animals—Stiles knew they were out of options. Mrs. Martin had her daughter psychologically evaluated, and when Lydia was so drugged she couldn’t remember Stiles’ name and fell asleep with her face against his crotch, he couldn’t take it anymore.

The secrets. The fear.

His father was out there every night trying to keep the town and its people safe, and he had no idea what he was up against. Scott still struggled with his new…condition. Lydia was medically misdiagnosed and inappropriately medicated.

“We have to tell Allison,” Stiles told Scott in a secluded corner of the library.

“Dude, no. She’d never believe us.”

“Are you kidding?! She told us herself her family was a bunch of monster hunters!”

“She was in shock. She was upset. Her dad was hurt.”

“Oh, my god,” Stiles hissed, rolling his eyes. “Allison wasn’t lying. She wasn’t in shock or upset or whatever. Neither is Lydia. Neither are we. Things we didn’t think exist actually do exist and are currently terrorizing our town. We have to tell her. We have to tell your mom, my dad, Lydia and her mom. We have to do something or more people are going to die.”

They told Stiles’ dad first. Scott gave a practical demonstration of his shift. Once Stiles had wrangled the sidearm from the Sheriff and explained the situation, he had a hard time believing it. Then Stiles showed him the bestiary, and told him about the Argents. He still didn’t believe, but he at least stopped staring at Scott like he didn’t know him.

When they told Scott’s mom, the Sheriff was with them, hand resting ominously on his sidearm. She screamed, then she cried. Then, she hugged Scott and they both cried. The Sheriff pulled Stiles into a half hug and mumbled against his hairline, “You did good, kid.”

Telling Allison and her family didn’t go nearly as smoothly, but at least Mr. and Mrs. Argent were smart enough to keep their heads with the Sheriff in the room. Melissa was fearful for Scott’s safety, and Scott fearful of Allison’s rejection. Their relationship was young, still blossoming, but their love was undeniable. Despite her father’s disapproving gaze, Allison hugged Scott, and told him nothing had changed between them. Mrs. Argent stormed out of the room. Mr. Argent sighed. The Sheriff raised an eyebrow at Mr. Argent and said, “My son says you have some experience in this field. Perhaps you’d like to help me keep people safe.” When Mr. Argent agreed—“Call me Chris.”—he not only single-handedly forged the most solid bond of their ragtag bunch, he also subjected himself to several months of sleeping on the couch.

Mrs. Martin fainted at the sight of Scott’s shifted face, his fangs, his amber glowing eyes. Thankfully, Chris caught her before she could hit the ground. Lydia froze, her terrifying gaze darting between Allison, Stiles, and the Sheriff. “So I’m not crazy?” she asked after a few heavy beats of silence.

“You were never crazy,” Stiles answered immediately. “You’re just fine. It’s the world that’s gone mad.”

Allison offered her a half-smile, and Stiles grabbed Lydia into a fierce hug when she started to cry with relief.

So everyone knew. Well, everyone who needed to know. Mass panic in Beacon Hills, his father losing his badge, the involvement of federal or state forces—none of them wanted that. The Argents had been handling creatures of the night under the radar for centuries, they came to find, and that worked just as well for them.

Shortly after the four families got on the same page, Scott’s boss, Dr. Deaton, revealed himself as a druid emissary to the supernatural. His insight, information, and resources became invaluable.

Chris and the Sheriff taught Melissa and Natalie how to fire guns and basic self-defense. Allison took the reins on teaching Lydia and Stiles what her father had taught her over the years, though the Sheriff made time to take Stiles to the range. Deaton provided them with mountain ash baseboards to protect their homes, and helped interpret the movements the alpha was making; aside from Scott, no one else appeared to have been bitten.

They worked together, researching and preparing. Hunting and fighting. It was a combination of Lydia’s academic prowess and Allison’s aim that ultimately brought the alpha down. Chris delivered the killing blow once the man wore a human face, then they burned the body before mixing it with mountain ash and dispersing it in the dirt of the preserve.

After that first success, it was hard not to continue. They knew what they were doing, more or less, and always learned more along the way.

The Sheriff covered up the supernatural on the legal end, and Melissa did the same on the medical end. Natalie was psychological support for the community, assuring folks that the monsters she and her daughter helped hunt and kill didn’t exist. Chris, through his federal firearms licensing, made sure they had a full armory at their disposal. Deaton helped Scott with his new abilities, and offered the supernatural edge they needed to keep their town safe.

And when Lydia developed her banshee powers, their jobs only got easier. Her screams, though leaving her exhausted and in tears, helped them batten down the hatches for whatever oncoming storm. Stiles and her mother helped her through her roughest nights while Allison, Scott, Chris, and the Sheriff would go after the latest threat.

They fended off a kanima, a darach, and an alpha pack before senior year. But their mortality was tested with every battle. One night, Stiles was stuck holding his own intestines while waiting for Deaton and Melissa to arrive on the scene. Another, Chris had been strung up for a sacrifice, and hadn’t regained consciousness until three days after his rescue. Mrs. Argent joined their cause just after almost losing her husband.

Part of Stiles wished she’d resented them forever. Had she stayed out of the fray, she wouldn’t have been bitten. An alpha had Scott on the ropes, ready to finish him off, when Vicki intervened. Before dropping the werewolf and saving Scott, it sank its teeth into her shoulder. She gave herself until the next full moon before she asked Chris to help drive a knife through her heart. She didn’t want to be a monster.

Allison and her father mourned.

Scott blamed himself.

Stiles trained harder.

The danger they regularly faced wasn’t so cosmic as to escape Stiles’ comprehension. He’d stitched up too many people he loved not to understand how fragile they all were. There were so many close calls, so many tears, and so so much blood. When Stiles imagined dying, it was always painful, gory, with roaring monsters and gunfire, but he didn’t fear it. When Stiles imagined losing someone he loved, it was the same—painful, gory, with roaring monsters and gunfire. Nightmares robbed him of sleep, but he just used those hours to help better their odds of success. Research, training, whatever was needed to lessen the chances of losing someone.

It kept them safe. It kept Beacon Hills safe.

That was why the summons from the principal’s office in senior calculous was so strange. Whenever any of them were pulled out of class, it was normally for whatever new threat to neutralize and normally by a deputy on his father’s request. But this was a school official, and when he gathered his things to follow the staff member, he met Natalie rushing down the hall towards them.

“Stiles,” she said. “Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

He hadn’t responded, though his stomach dropped. He just followed the staff member towards the office and tried to ignore the warmth of Natalie’s hand on his lower back.

Sitting in the hard, creaky chair before the principal’s large desk, they told him there had been a robbery. The Sheriff responded to it. They told him about the shootout, about the casualties. Then they told him about his father.

Critical condition

Prognosis unknown.

Stiles grabbed his backpack and stormed out of the school.

 

###

 

Stiles opted to stay with the Martins while his dad was in the hospital, much to Scott and Melissa’s dismay. Despite how near-intrusive Natalie could be, she and Lydia were far more the type of support Stiles needed. Stiles didn’t need someone so mothering—he needed someone more clinical. He didn’t need someone who could scent his every emotion—he needed someone more discrete.

He needed someone who wouldn’t check on him in the middle of the night.

With the shoebox tucked securely in the backpack slung over his shoulder, he eased open the window of the guest room— _his_ room, as Lydia had insisted—and slithered awkwardly until he could confidently land on the soft lawn without breaking an ankle. Looking this way and that, he held his breath and strained his hearing towards the house’s other occupants. Confident neither Lydia nor Natalie stirred, he bolted.

Leaping over fences and cutting through yards, Stiles returned to his house in record time. Taking the Jeep would have been too conspicuous—everyone knew it was his, and it was far too loud. But he still had his bicycle. It was dusty, and he had to spend a few minutes refilling the softened tires, but the chain was in good shape. He left the house as quickly as he came, peddling hard to the preserve just outside of town.

Dead leaves and dried twigs crunched beneath the worn tread of his tires, but he peddled through the rough terrain. He cut through underbrush and yanked his bike up and over ridges, delving further and further into the preserve. He didn’t want to be found. He didn’t want what he was about to do to be easily discovered.

The moon was high in the sky—full and bright and promising—when he finally reached the spot were two distant paths crossed. Stiles leapt off his bike and let it fall to the ground, then jogged to the center of where the two paths met. There, he knelt and checked the items in the shoe box: a photograph of his own crooked grin, a sandwich bag of graveyard dirt, a few tuffs of yarrow, and black cat bones. With everything in order, he plunged his hands into the soft, cool dirt, and dug. It was damp between his fingers, cold enough to make his joints ache. But he made a hole big enough for the box and buried it. He patted the disturbed earth flat with the toe of his shoe.

He dusted his hands off on his jeans, then rubbed them together and brought them to his face. Breathing warmth against his chilly palms, he murmured the five words repeating his mind for the last week: “ _Daemon, esto subjecto voluntati meae_.”

Stiles waited. And waited. And waited.

He searched the clearing, spinning to study every angle, every point around him.

Nothing happened.

“Of fucking course,” he muttered. “Jesus, this was stupid.” He rolled his eyes and moved to dig up the box. “I’m such a fucking—”

“—clever boy.”

Stiles shot to his feet, the box forgotten, and whipped out the handgun he had tucked in the back of his jeans. His grip was steady, his aim sure.

The man who stood down the line of his sight smirked and titled his head. “Oh, I think you know how little that will help you…Stiles.” His thin-looking shirt clung to his muscled chest, the deep V of its neckline plunging enough to reveal muscles the cloth hinted at. His jeans were snug on his hips, hugging his thighs, and the denim bunched a bit around the tops of his boots.

Stiles was nothing if not thorough with his research. He knew what he summoned would appear appealing to him, and fuck if this guy wasn’t the type he’d approach at a club after a few drinks.

The man closed his icy blue eyes slowly, deliberately. Stiles was only mildly surprised to find them blood red when they opened.

“That’s not my real name,” Stiles bit. He lowered the gun, and tucked it away.

“But it’s what you preferred to be called,” the man said. “And I’m not about to bother pronouncing your key-smash of a given name.” He took a few calculated steps forward and said, “So, monster hunter, I hear you want to make a deal.”

“Yeah,” Stiles stammered, “I do.”

“I was wondering how long it would take you,” the man commented. “Once you delved into the supernatural. How long has it been? Ten years?”

Stiles blinked. “Ten years?”

“Aren’t you going to ask about your dear mother?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, and he felt a bit guilty realizing it. But would he want to drag his mother into the clusterfuck he called a life? No. No, she was better off wherever she was. “What? No!”

Arching an eyebrow, the man said, “Then what are we dealing for?”

“My dad,” Stiles said. “Who am I dealing with?”

“You can call me Peter. And your father isn’t dead yet.”

“That’s what we’re going to negotiate.”

The demon folded his arms across his chest, shifted his weight to jut a hip to the side. “Negotiate?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, and licked his lips. Those crimson eyes followed the movement. _Interesting._

“Go on.”

“My father’s in a coma, on life support. I’m gonna have to pull the plug, because he’s basically braindead.” Stiles was proud he said it all without the prick of tears. “So what I want is to make sure that the moment I pull the plug, he’s brought back. Some sort of miraculous recovery thing.”

“These are normally soul-for-soul trades, Stiles,” Peter murmured.

“And I’d normally have ten years before you drag me down to the pit, right?”

With a smirk, Peter said, “Someone did their homework.”

Stiles shrugged. “It’s a curse. Besides, I’m a monster hunter. Isn’t my soul worth a little more than the average person’s?”

Peter grinned, his hum one of amusement. “Perhaps,” he said, “if you were a demon hunter.” He paused, blinked his eyes back to their natural, human-looking blue, then raked them along Stiles’ form, so obvious it tingled along Stiles’ skin. Stiles shivered. “Five years instead of ten, since we’re bargaining beyond the standard means.”

“Fine,” Stiles said, unflinchingly. “But I’m still a monster hunter; one that’s savvy enough to summon a demon.”

“Anyone can summon a demon,” Peter remarked.

“But not anyone can kill or capture one,” Stiles said. “I know how. I could easily shift my hunting focus.”

Peter arched an eyebrow. “Are you threatening me?”

“Are you currently occupying a vessel? _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…_ ”

That made Peter laugh. He said, “You’ve made your point, boy. You’ll make a fine demon once you’ve spent some time on the rack.”

Stiles tried not to grimace at the prospect. Instead, he barreled onward, “When my dad is brought back, the only thing that can take him is old age, and you guarantee it through whatever demonic means necessary. He lives a long, healthy life.”

“One year now.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed.

Peter smirked. “When you play with fire…”

“Fine. If that’s the case, I want my full guaranteed time. So the only thing that can take me is your hellhound. No injury, no disease, no unfortunate circumstance. Nothing. I get my full year, my entire twelve months. Same as my dad, just shorter.”

“You’re bold, I’ll give you that.”

Stiles gave a noncommittal hum, and jutted his chin outward defiantly. “Do we have a deal, then, or not?”

“Your soul,” Peter purred. He closed the distance between them with predatory steps. “Reaped in twelve months’ time, in exchange for your father’s resurrection and guaranteed long, healthy life that can only end with old age.”

Swallowing thickly, Stiles nodded. Peter stood within inches of him, close enough to smell his cologne—he didn’t know demons wore cologne. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his too-human skin. It was unnerving, how real Peter was. He kept his eyes level with the demon’s chest, the sharp dip of his collar, to avoid his hungry gaze. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“With an additional caveat.”

“Which is…?”

“You work for _me_ once you’re brought down.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Done. I’m yours.”

“Stiles,” Peter breathed. He cupped Stiles’ face and guided his gaze upward. Peter was an inch or two taller—not much, but enough that this close, Stiles had to look up to meet his eyes. The demon’s thumb stoked his cheekbone. “Do you know what comes next?”

Keeping his voice steady, he answered, “We seal the deal.”

“Right. Have you ever been kissed by a man before?”

Stiles forced a laugh, though it was far too high and nervous for his liking. He couldn’t pull or look away like he wanted—Peter’s grip was sure and iron-strong—so he endured embarrassment without reprieve. His face warmed, pink and blotchy. “How is that even relevant?”

“You’re young,” Peter said. It would have sounded regretful had he worn an expression to match. “Once upon a time, I’d be able to smell the nervousness on you, smell your arousal.”

_The fuck does that mean?_

“I’m not aroused,” Stiles automatically said.

“But you’re nervous.”

“I’m about to sell my soul here, dude. Of course I’m nervous.”

Peter continued staring into Stiles’ eyes, stroking his cheek. Stiles tried not to fidget beneath the scrutiny. “You won’t remember pain once you’re one of us. It’ll take time, but you won’t even remember your own name.”

“Christ, just kiss me already.”

So Peter did. He crashed their mouths together and licked the seam of Stiles’ lips until they parted in a startled gasp. The demon’s hand slid to cup Stiles’ jaw, pulling him up and closer, soundly bruising his lips until Stiles moaned. Stiles clutched at Peter’s thin shirt, letting the demon do as he would—submission his only option for survival, for the deal to be made.

The demon pulled away savoring the remnants of the kiss with a slow tongue running over his lips. “The pact is sealed,” he said, voice rough.

A few heartbeats passed before Stiles could return to himself. He hadn’t wanted to kiss a demon, not really. But Peter was hot in his own way, and had made Stiles feel at least slightly wanted. It wasn’t bad, but he hadn’t expected his dick to get so on board with it. He licked his lips before wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his hoodie. That was when he noticed the huge black wolf standing at the edge of the clearing, visible over Peter’s shoulder. Its eyes flashed an eerie red.

A hellhound.

Only the souls meant to be reaped could see them.

“The fuck?!” Stiles squawked, jerking back. “I have a year! A full twelve months!”

“You do,” Peter said. “This is my hellhound. He’ll be the one ensuring you receive your agreed-upon twelve months to live.”

“What?” Stiles asked, dumbly.

“You wanted demonic protection for you and your father,” the demon explained. “This is how I provide it. Derek will keep you safe until your time is up.”

Stiles watched warily as the hellhound approached him. Its movements were silent, fluid like wisps of black ink dropped in clear water. He was made of shadow, translucent and hard to focus on, but when he sat beside Stiles, he did so as primly as the dogs in his dad’s K9 Unit. Stiles lifted a hand and brushed it along the top of the hellhound’s head, earning a snapping growl in response. His palm tingled where it made brief contact with the creature’s umbra.

“He isn’t particularly friendly,” Peter commented. “But he’s my best.”

Stiles continued to stare at the hellhound at his side, despite how he nodded acknowledgement to Peter.

“He’ll stay with you, and arrange your father’s…recovery. Make your moves quickly, Stiles. You only have twelve months.”

When Stiles looked up to agree—again—Peter was gone.

The hellhound watched him with critical crimson eyes, then gave an unimpressed snort.

It dawned on him, then, that he stood beside what would ultimately kill him. That the fangs hidden beneath the hound’s shadowy muzzle would tear his body to shreds before ripping out his soul and dragging it to Hell.

“Fuck.”

 

###

 

The hellhound didn’t linger long after Peter’s departure—it evaporated like a ninja smoke bomb the moment Stiles was on his bike and peddling back towards his house—though Stiles could sense its presence. He felt followed, watched. It should have raised the hairs on the back of his neck, set off his carefully honed hunter instincts. Instead, Stiles actually felt better, _safer_. The hound was, in some perverted way, his guardian angel. Fallen angel, but angel nonetheless.

And it wasn’t some self-indulgent fantasy, either. There was no faith involved, no belief without evidence. From the corner of his eye, he could see the hound’s large, canid shape easily keeping pace with him. If he watched closely enough, he could see the glimmer of its intense gaze reflected in puddles and the windows of the houses he passed.

Stiles dumped the bike at his house, letting it fall against the wall of the garage with a careless clatter, and, after collecting a few odds and ends, made to leave. As he exited through the open garage, he startled to find the hellhound waiting just beyond the threshold of the structure, positively glowering.

“What?” Stiles sniped, indignant.

It flattened its ears and snorted.

“What??” Stiles demanded again. “Are you mad? Did you want to come in for tea or something?”

Crimson eyes drifted to the baseboards lining the garage, the unusual home improvement design that lined where the garage met the driveway as well. Then the hound looked pointedly back at Stiles.

“Mountain ash,” he said, answering what he assumed was the hound’s unspoken question. “You should be fine to cross it.”

It sniffed the border curiously, then took a cautious step forward and lifted a paw as if to cross the threshold. But a blue flash of energy flared and its pads were flush against an invisible wall. The hound growled, stepped back, and sat expectantly on its haunches.

Stiles’ brows furrowed. “It’s mountain ash,” he insisted, as if the hound had accused him of lying. “You shouldn’t react to mountain ash! It’s not like it’s salt or iron or—or goofer dust!”

The hound harrumphed.

Scrubbing his face, Stiles said, “I’ll talk to Deaton about it, okay? Because I was under the impression it was just mountain ash. I’ll find out if he put anything else in there.” He shouldered his backpack and left the garage to stand beside the hound. “I’m staying with a friend. She has mountain ash protecting her house, too, but I’m pretty sure I can break the seal for you in my room.”

Standing, the hound seemed indifferent.

“Come on,” Stiles said. “I’m beat.”

It disappeared again, but tendrils of its wispy umbra clung to Stiles’ heels and wafted from his shadow beneath the streetlights. It was weird, being followed—haunted. Weirder still knowing he was the only one who could see what followed him.

By the time he reached Lydia’s, Stiles felt a little like he was losing it, like maybe he hadn’t actually summoned a demon or sold his soul. He was tired. Everything blurred together. But after climbing back into his room through the window and dressing down for bed, he lay beneath the warm covers; and when he stared into the deepest shadow of the darkest corner of his room, twin blood-red eyes stared back.

 

###

 

Stiles didn’t see the hellhound the following morning, though as the night before, he could vaguely sense it lingering nearby. Again, he felt safe instead of stalked, and it bolstered his confidence. With Peter’s words haunting his thoughts—“Make your moves quickly…”—he left a hastily scrawled note for Lydia and Natalie telling them he would be visiting his father. It was a Saturday, thankfully, and he spent his every free moment by his father’s side; abandoning all else to occupy a squeaky hospital chair and count the blips on the heart monitor was par for the course.

The hospital staff knew him well. Between the countless days spent by his ailing mother’s side, Scott’s childhood asthma, and the sheer closeness between the Stilinski and McCall families, he needn’t do much more than smile and wave to access anything and everything he could need. He could anticipate free Jell-O cups from the cafeteria, and all the tar-black coffee his intestines could stand without ever having to ask. The staff just…knew what he needed, and gave it to him. Maybe it was sympathy. Maybe it was pity. For Stiles, it was a means to an end, like so much else in his life.

Bright lights, cutting cold, bleach. His shoes looked grimy against the tiles of the floor, his dark clothes stark with a white-wash backdrop. He felt equal parts out of place and perfectly at home, both feelings unnerving in their own right.

He was barely eighteen. He had no business being so intimately familiar with the hospital.

He was barely eighteen. Why wouldn’t he be so intimately familiar with the hospital?

Stiles stopped short when he entered his father’s room.

Several things happened at once.

He quickly assessed the situation. There was an unknown man standing at his father’s bedside. Leather jacket, fitted jeans, boots. His dark hair was styled just so, the rough stubble shadowing his jawline trimmed meticulously. He was a little taller than Stiles— _like Peter_ —but significantly more muscled, stronger, bigger. Stiles would struggle to bring him down in hand-to-hand.  As he analyzed the stranger, he simultaneously tightened his grip on the backpack slung over his shoulder, and reached behind his back for where his handgun was tucked into his jeans.

His gun would be the best method of neutralizing this unknown threat.

But somewhere between the rapid processing of Stiles’ thoughts and his hand meeting his weapon, the man looked up from where he watched the Sheriff and met Stiles’ gaze. His iridescent eyes flashed crimson, bright and ominous and dangerous, and a growl rumbled through the nooks and crannies of Stiles’ skull.

A nurse walked in, and Stiles jumped when she brushed passed him.

His eyes darted frantically between the leather-clad man with hellhound eyes and the nurse. Despite how she puttered about mere inches from him, the man neither moved, nor did the nurse notice him. In fact, when it came time to check the Sheriff’s vitals, her gentle hand and upper body passed clear through the man. Stiles stared, slack-jawed.

The man stared back, lips pressed into the barest frown.

“Are you alright, sweetie?”

Stiles blinked and forced himself to look at the nurse. “Yeah,” he stammered. “I’m fine.” He licked his lips and cleared his throat. “How is he?”

“No change,” she said regretfully. “While he isn’t getting any better, he isn’t getting any worse.” She sighed softly and pulled the Sheriff’s blanket up a little further. “The neurologist will be in later this afternoon to discuss your…options…for his condition.”

Smirking bitterly, Stiles asked, “What options are there for brain death?”

The nurse gave him a sympathetically admonishing look. “Would you like me to send for the chaplain?”

“No,” Stiles said quickly, and he glanced to the man, just in case. What he found was the man arching one of his thick eyebrows in the nurse’s direction like she was the dumbest person alive. “No, that won’t be necessary. We’ll—I’ll just wait for the doctor, thanks.”

“Alright,” the nurse said. She gave Stiles another one of her practiced caring smiles before leaving. Stiles closed and locked the door behind her.

“You’re my hellhound,” Stiles said, spinning around to face the man. He felt the cool surface of the door through his clothes, and it somehow grounded him. “You’re Derek.”

The man—Derek—nodded.

“You have a human form.”

Derek nodded again.

“And no one can see you but me.”

Derek nodded a third time.

“Can you talk?”

“Of course I can talk,” Derek scoffed.

“Then why don’t you just answer my questions with words like a grown-up?”

“You do enough talking for the both of us. Even your thoughts ramble.”

“You can read my thoughts?” God, that would make communicating so much easier and a lot less crazy-looking.

“Emotions,” Derek clarified, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll know when you’re in danger.” He looked away from Stiles and resumed studying the Sheriff. “He’s not coming back from this,” he casually observed.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Stiles huffed. “That’s why I made the deal.”

“No,” Derek said, shaking his head. “I mean, his spirit is very separated from the vessel.”

Stiles swallowed. “So…what? What does that mean?”

Derek reached out a hand, fingertips glowing like hot coals, and touched something Stiles couldn’t see. “His spirit’s attached by a fraying thread. He’ll go right as the body dies. You can’t pull the plug until I tell you or he could slip from my grasp.”

Chewing his lip, Stiles drummed nervous fingers against his thigh. “What happens if he slips?”

Shaking his head, Derek said, “He won’t, as long as you listen to me.” He met Stiles’ gaze, then. “When do you want to proceed?”

“As soon as possible,” he answered. “Now.” After wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, Stiles crossed the small room in a few long strides and knelt beside a large power strip. There, the various machines keeping his father alive got their juice, the outlet painted red to indicate connection to the hospital’s emergency generators. He took a breath and wrapped his hand around the master plug.

Derek watched him steadily, his heavy gaze a weight on Stiles’ back. But Stiles just rolled his shoulders and made sure he could yank the plug in one tug.

“You’re sure you want to do this?” Derek asked, and the softness of his voice startled Stiles.

“Yeah, of course,” came Stiles’ easy answer. No hesitation. Absolute. “I mean, I already sealed the deal. Might as well go through with it, right?”

“If the demon doesn’t uphold his end, the contract is void,” Derek said.

“And, what? I get my soul back?”

“Technically, you don’t lose it until I drag you down.”

“And technically, my father is a living cadaver,” Stiles snapped. Then he sighed. “Look, just…I made my decision, okay? Just do your job already.”

Derek gave a soft hum, and the glow of his fingertips brightened. Stiles watched from the corner of his eye as Derek threaded them through the air, snatching up bits and pieces of something—his father’s spirit, he reminded himself. His hands worked deftly, gently, while his brows furrowed in concentration and shadowed the burning red of his eyes. The frown pulling faintly at the line of his mouth and the clench of his jaw told Stiles all he needed to know about how well the process was going. And he wondered, suddenly, terrified, if his father was too far gone even for a demon’s power.

“Okay,” Derek said, jarring Stiles from his morbid thoughts. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, whenever you are.”

“On three,” the hound said. “One.”

Stiles’ hand trembled were it gripped the plug.

“Two.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, breathing slowly to quiet his thundering pulse.

“Three.”

Stiles yanked the plug. The machines screeched warnings, screams of flat lines and ceased pulses.

Derek gave a quiet grunt of force, then growled, frustrated.

Stiles looked over his shoulder just in time to see his father’s back arch like one of Allison’s bows, a ragged, desperate gasp opening his mouth wide to fill his lungs with air. Without thinking, Stiles forced the plug back into the outlet. The machines continued their alarms, and sneakers squeaked outside the hall. He shot to his feet and hovered at his father’s bedside, making sure to look properly bewildered.

Derek stepped away from the bed and waved a hand toward the locked door. It popped open and bounced gently against the frame, as if someone forgot to close it all the way in a hasty departure. Instead of leaving, however, Derek lingered in what little shadow was available in the bright hospital room. He was well out of the way when the staff burst into the room, all fluster and quick response and life-or-death.

A nurse shoved Stiles with a palm to his chest, and he stumbled back until he fell into a forgotten chair against the far wall. There, he bounced his leg and chewed a hangnail, watching the staff work on his father. He waited until the medical team announced that, lo and behold, his father made a miraculous recovery. While still unconscious, the Sheriff was breathing on his own, his brainwaves had returned to normal, and even his heart seemed stronger than ever.

Stiles expected it. He saw it happen, watched Derek do his work. He’d sold his soul for it. Even still, he didn’t have to fake his tears the way he faked his anxiety. No, Stiles cried as they told him his dad was going to be okay, as they promised a near full recovery, and it was real.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having a Hellhound around isn't so bad after all.

Three days after he awoke, the Sheriff was cleared not only to go home, but for light duty back at the station. Stiles bit his bottom lip and left impressions of his teeth to stifle the inane, goofy smile wanting to split his face in two. It had worked. It had worked. His dad was fine. His dad was better than fine—his dad was in the best shape of his life!

Stiles stood close to his father while they filled out the release paperwork and collected the last of the Sheriff’s belongings. It was totally inappropriate and childish for an eighteen-year-old to practically hang from his father’s arm, to make sure there was some physical contact between them, but considering Stiles had, literally, been a heartbeat away from becoming an orphan, well…he thought he could dote on his dad a bit without too much judgement. He took everything the hospital offered and ushered his father to the exit with a hand to his lower back.

“I’m fine, son,” the Sheriff sighed. “They even said so. Lots of them said so.”

“I know,” Stiles answered. “I know. I just…” He sighed and shook his head.

He’d brought the Jeep around to the front of the hospital before helping with his father’s release, so the bright blue behemoth waited just outside the automatic doors. As he helped his father into the passenger seat—“For the last time, I’m _fine_ , Stiles!”—Stiles spotted a dark-clad figure hovering hear the smoking area. Behind him sat a pair of smokers, puffing their cancer sticks and nattering loudly, completely oblivious to the guy with resting murder face.

Derek didn’t stay long enough for Stiles to catch his gaze or acknowledge him. One moment Stiles recognized his hellhound, the next, the hound vanished. The black wisps of his departure mingled with the tendrils of tobacco smoke, and Stiles told himself he’d thank Derek later.

At the Stilinski house, their family gathered to welcome the Sheriff home. With a squeaky clean bill of health, Stiles fired up the grill and fed his dad all the cheddar bacon burgers he could eat. Cholesterol and carbs and an abundance of leafy greens were never going plague their diets again, and the Sheriff was more than happy to indulge. Melissa and Scott brought a couple of casseroles, Natalie and Lydia brought sangria—Stiles could have kissed Lydia for how delicious the berry wine liquor-y goodness looked, and, because autumn was in full swing, Allison and Chris brought all the fixings for s’mores and hot chocolate.

Hugs and kisses and back claps were given freely, abundantly, and they ate until they could hardly move. And still, they continued picking at the food.

The Sheriff settled into his favorite recliner, Allison and Scott cozied up in a corner of the couch, and Melissa had dragged in a chair from the kitchen. Chris sat in the other recliner with Natalie perched on its arm. Stiles and Lydia sat cross-legged on the coffee table.

“How’d you know any of this stuff would be okay?” Stiles asked around a brandy-soaked apple chunk. They killed monsters and managed to keep their grades up—hardly anyone cared if the kids drank in the privacy and safety of one of their homes. He looked pointedly between Melissa, whose casseroles were a carbo-overload, and Natalie, who used more than natural fruit sugar to sweeten her famous sangria. “He had to watch his numbers, keep himself in tip-top shape, and absolutely none of _this_ helps with _that_.” He slurred, his face was wonderfully warm, and he couldn’t stop grinning.

“Had,” Natalie repeated, emphasizing the past-tense.

“You’re not the only one who knows their way around the hospital,” Melissa tutted.  “Besides, even if he hadn’t been given the health report of a man half his age, we’d have still spoiled him.”

“I’m right here, guys!” the Sheriff added, waving a fork of potatoes to get their attention.

“Good to know that if a bullet won’t kill him, your foods will,” Stiles muttered.

Lydia smacked him in the shoulder. “Jeez, Stiles, let your dad enjoy being home.”

“And maybe you should enjoy your dad being home, too,” Allison added, grinning before she popped a marshmallow into her mouth.

“Love you, pops!” Stiles crowed, obnoxious and drunk and so so happy.

The evening wound down and the adults began cleaning up and packing away left overs. The kids stayed in the living room, finishing off the sangria and the last marshmallows clinging to the bottom of the bag. Stiles heard the soft hiccups and the watery murmurs from the kitchen where Natalie and Melissa undoubtedly were hugging and touching and kissing his father’s cheeks, telling him how much they worried, how much they loved him, how happy they were he was okay. Chris wasn’t as open, but Stiles knew he was relieved the Sheriff had recovered just the same—he hugged him a bit tighter and a bit longer than he ever had before.

His father was so loved.

“How you holding up?” Scott asked, nudging Stiles with his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and he laughed at himself for how giddy he sounded. “I’m better than fine. I’m great.”

“It’s amazing that he recovered so well,” Allison said.

“It’s amazing that he recovered at all,” Lydia added.

“I know,” Stiles responded. “I thought he was a goner. Total brain death, they said. They started pushing me to donate his organs to people who needed them.” He shook his head and tilted back his glass to try to mouth a piece of pineapple stuck to the edge.

“That’s fucked up,” Allison breathed. “We had no idea.”

With a shrug, Stiles said, “I’m legally an adult, and his only next of kin. It makes sense they’d come to me with that kinda stuff.”

“But that’s your _dad_ ,” Scott argued.

“And he was pretty much dead,” Stiles sighed.

“But now he’s not,” Lydia said, pressing a smile to where she leaned into Stiles’ shoulder. “He’s back, and he’s better, and he’s only going to keep getting better.”

Stiles gave a sleepy nod, and pressed a kiss to the top of Lydia’s head.

After everyone gave their goodbyes and left for the evening, the Stilinski home was more or less returned to its normal state. Plates had been washed and put away, trash taken out to the bin, what food was left packed away and neatly stacked in the fridge. It was quiet in the house when Stiles and his father sat down at the kitchen table and shared a couple fingers of Jack.

“I’m sorry I gave you such a scare, kid,” the Sheriff said before sipping his whiskey.

“It’s okay, dad,” Stiles answered. “You’re the sheriff. Your job has always been dangerous. I’ve always known that.”

“I know, but…” he sighed.

“But what?”

Shaking his head, the sheriff said, “Since all of this...supernatural business started, I thought…nevermind. It’s not important.”

“No, dad,” Stiles said, voice gentle. “You can tell me. What’s up?”

“I guess I forgot how dangerous humans were, since we’re always fighting monsters these days. I got careless, and that carelessness almost left you alone.”

Stiles swallowed thickly. When his eyes burned, he grabbed his glass of Jack and quickly took a swig. When the tears tracked his cheeks, it was just because the drink burned going down. “Almost,” he said after a beat. “Almost is a big margin when it comes to these things. You were on the right side of it, so it’s okay.”

The sheriff put his hand over his son’s and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll be more careful on the job,” he promised.

“Like we’re careful when we’re hunting?” Stiles asked with a small smirk. There was no such thing as careful in their lines of work. To hunt monsters or to protect and serve meant survival came secondary to the objective—neutralizing threats and keeping people safe were always the highest priority.

“I won’t let myself be careless on the job again,” the Sheriff clarified.

“Okay,” Stiles said with a nod. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that.” And it was easy for him to agree, because it didn’t matter. However careless his father was or wasn’t on the job or hunting was completely irrelevant—Stiles sold his soul to insure his father died of old age and nothing else. His dad could fling himself into a barrage of bullets or let a monster tear his throat out and he’d be fine. He’d always be fine. Stiles made sure of it.

They retired when they finished their drinks, Stiles so grateful to hear his dad’s tired steps trudge up the stairs, thankful to hear the bedroom door creak as he closed it. He put away the bottle and their glasses, then made his way upstairs as well.

His room was dark, but he wasn’t surprised to find it occupied.

“I know you’re there,” he said softly. “You don’t have to lurk or whatever.” Stiles turned his desk lamp on just in time to see Derek materialize from the retreating shadows, the hound’s eyes smoldering red until he blinked them to their other, iridescent color. Stiles still couldn’t decide if they were blue or green, though seafoam came to mind through the muddled mess of delicious sangria and Jack-with-Dad. He recalled lines from a poem:

            _He had green eyes / so I wanted to sleep with him—_

_green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool—_

_You could drown in those eyes, I said._

And he was apparently very drunk to think of drowning in the eyes of a demon.

 Jesus.

The hound’s eyebrows were raised with expectation, prompting Stiles to get on with whatever he needed his appearance to do. He watched him, though, carefully neutral in poise. For a demon, he certainly went through a lot of trouble not to appear intimidating.

“You saved my dad,” Stiles said, staring at the hellhound standing in the far corner of his room. He might ultimately kill Stiles, but Derek gave him his dad back, and that was the single most important thing on Stiles’ mind—naming the color of Derek’s eyes was second. His dad was the single most monumental thing anyone had ever given him.

“That was the deal you made,” Derek said easily. A new tilt of his brows made him appear perplexed instead of expectant.

“Yeah, but you brought my dad back.” Derek didn’t get it, and Stiles needed him to get it. He took a few tentative steps towards the hound, hoping proximity would make him understand.

The hound nodded slowly, though he leaned minutely backward. “Yes, Stiles, per your specifications.”

“You didn’t have to do it.” Stiles took another few steps.

“Stiles,” Derek sighed. He rolled his eyes. “It was the deal you made. Your father lives and only old age can take him.”

“No,” Stiles insisted. “Don’t you get it? You gave me my dad back.” He closed the distance between them and grabbed Derek by the lapels of his jacket. Having seen his father’s nurse pass completely through him, he was a bit surprised to find Derek solid and real, to find the leather of his jacket supple and well-worn.

 _It’s amazing that he recovered at all_ , Lydia had said.

“I know,” Derek said slowly. He wrapped his hands around Stiles’ wrists, surprising him with how warm they were. Whether from Derek’s too-human skin or the fires of Hell, Stiles couldn’t tell. “It was what you wanted.”

Stiles scowled and tugged on Derek’s jacket, jostling him. “No! That’s not—that’s not what I mean.” His face was hot, and his vision was a little blurry. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and he was struggling to find the words, and why didn’t Derek just _get it_? He could read his mind—his emotions—whatever. He should _know_. He took a breath and closed his eyes. It might be easier if he wasn’t looking at Derek’s perfectly chiseled face and distractingly summer pool eyes, so he tried that. “Old age…health problems and organ failure and difficulty healing are part of old age. He could have died in his sleep in the hospital and it could have been from ‘old age,’ because ‘old age’ is the body failing over time due to time. He could have stayed in a coma as a vegetable with beeping brainwaves and still technically be alive until, like, his body just gave out from _old age_. You could have just shoved his soul into a meat prison and called it square. Deal fulfilled and Stiles’ soul up for grabs in a year. But…you didn’t.”

Derek huffed and turned to watch something fascinating in a blank spot of the bedroom wall.

“You brought him back conscious and healthy,” Stiles continued. “You brought him back better than when he was shot. You brought him back so I could _have him_.”

“Are you finished?” Derek asked. His voice was soft, rough, and trying to sound bored or distracted. How he didn’t pull away or argue made the contradiction clear to Stiles.

“You gave me my dad back. You didn’t have to.” He clutched tighter to Derek’s jacket, his hands trembling, his breath coming quick and ragged because Stiles hadn’t even realized how badly his deal could have gone until it _didn’t_. Because Derek didn’t take advantage of a loop-hole Stiles had been too stupid to see or anticipate.

Derek said, quiet, like a secret, “It was what you wanted.”

Without thinking, Stiles stood on his toes and threw his arms around Derek’s neck, hugging him tight. He hugged him and breathed in that ragged just-on-the-verge-of-tears way because he gave him his dad back.  He hugged him until Derek didn’t have much choice other than to wrap his arms around Stiles in return, foreign and uncomfortable. “Thank you,” Stiles croaked, wet and tired and drunk.

“You’re welcome.”

 

###

 

Several weeks after his miraculous recovery, the first in what would become a string of mysterious disappearances landed on Sheriff Stilinski’s desk. Stiles happened to be having lunch with him when the report came in, completed by a deputy and to be reviewed by the Sheriff before filing and follow-up.

A believed kidnapping, evidence of a struggle, and discerning photographs awaited them when they opened the manila folder, their burgers forgotten in the energy ebbing between excitement and anxiety. Stiles pulled his phone from his pocket and began snapping pictures of the report, the evidence, the police photographs. Kidnappings were too normal for Beacon Hills, and while the Sheriff’s Department would process this case like any other, the Stilinskis knew better than to assume their perpetrator was human.

No human leaves streaks of white mucus at the scene.

“Well, some do, if you think abou—”

“Stiles, I don’t _want_ to think about it. That would just make this case much weirder and more disgusting than it probably is.”

“Psychotic pervert or supernatural mucus monster. I mean, both are pretty weird and gross,” Stiles said. “One is just more anticipated than the other.”

“And it’s screwed up that we assume it’s the latter,” the Sheriff sighed. “Did you send those pics to Chris yet?”

“Group text, dad,” Stiles said before shoving a curly fry into his mouth. “Everyone’s in the know now.” His phone pinged with a few incoming messages moments later, and he slurped his soda while he scrolled through them. Their team was a well-oiled machine—more than three minutes between replies usually meant something was wrong. “Lydia said she and Allison will visit Deaton and start researching, and that we should update them as we find out more. Chris is going to go with Natalie as ‘state services’ to see if they can get the victim’s family to share more without police. Scott’s heading to the preserve to see if he can pick up anything weird, and will be checking out the scene once the sun goes down. Nothing weird at the hospital yet, but Melissa’s keeping an eye out.”

“Great. Ready to take a ride?” the Sheriff asked, grabbing his jacket from where it was draped over his desk chair.

“Ready to roll.” Stiles stashed the file beneath a pile of paperwork and followed his father out to the cruiser.

The drive to the scene—a house just on the outskirts of town—was quiet. Stiles did his own research, digging through the digital bestiary he kept on his phone while drumming arhythmically on the passenger door handle. Even when his father shot him irritated glances, Stiles remained indifferent, too busy looking up creatures with white mucus and kidnapping as calling cards. With his nose still buried in his phone, he followed his father into the house on autopilot, climbing porch stairs and ducking under police tape.

“Don’t touch anything,” Stiles was told.

To which he replied, “Duh.”

“What?” his dad asked, looking to Stiles from over his shoulder.

Stiles looked up from his phone. “Huh?”

“You just said something. Did you find something worth sharing with the class, or were you verbally responding to another text from Scott?”

Pursing his lips in confusion, Stiles began, “You just—” But Derek stepped through a cloud of dark smoke into existence near the victim’s piano, and Stiles stopped. All he could think of for a split second was _apparate_. “Text from Scott,” he said quickly, eyes flicking between his father and his hellhound.

“The mucus is a neurotoxin,” Derek said. He was completely indifferent to how Stiles struggled to split his attention and hold two conversations at once. “Lab results will probably verify, but _don’t touch it_ or you’ll drop.”

 _Dead?_ Stiles mouthed.

“No, paralyzed. Non-lethal, but it takes days to recover.”

Kneeling, the Sheriff reached into his pocket and snapped his hand into a rubber glove. He gave a thoughtful hum before moving to examine one of the smears more closely.

“Don’t touch it!” Stiles blurted, sharp and panicked.

His dad froze inches from the substance, and watched Stiles carefully. “I’m wearing a glove, Stiles.” He waved his fingers to show how they were safely wrapped in blue latex.

“It’s a neurotoxin,” Stiles argued. He thumbed through his phone like he was reading something he’d found in the bestiary, though he glanced to Derek. “It…”

“…bleeds through anything, even latex,” Derek supplied.

“…bleeds through anything, even latex,” Stiles parroted. He looked between his phone and Derek, waiting for approval, and at Derek’s nod, he finally settled his attention on his dad. “So don’t touch it. It’ll paralyze you for days.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the Sheriff nodded and abandoned his inspection of the mucus. Instead, he carefully picked his way through the house. “Alright. Keep researching.”

Derek raised an eyebrow to Stiles, then moved to leave the house. “We should talk.”

“I’m gonna step outside for a sec, okay?” Stiles called. When his dad shouted back a distracted ‘okay,’ Stiles followed the hellhound outside.

“Do you know what did this?” Stiles hissed once he and Derek were alone on the front porch. “Because it would be super helpful if you could use your demon knowledge to further our cause, ya know.”

“No,” Derek answered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know what did this. I just know that white stuff is a neurotoxin that would render you prone and helpless.”

“How?” Stiles demanded. “How can you possibly know what it is if you don’t know what secreted it?”

“Part of your terms and conditions were ‘no unfortunate accidents,’ and accidently getting paralyzed by an unknown neurotoxin would be rather unfortunate, wouldn’t it?” Derek cocked his head in a quiet challenge.

Huffing, Stiles said, “Fine. Point made. But my dad was about to touch it. Not me.”

“He isn’t supposed to suffer any unfortunate accidents either,” Derek replied. “And you’re incredibly clumsy, so it would only have been a matter of time until you came into contact with it.”

“You said it isn’t deadly,” Stiles pushed.

“It’s not,” Derek agreed. “But it still would have been unfortunate. And an accident.”

Stiles watched Derek for a long moment, brows furrowed in some emotional cacophony of confusion and resentment, frustration and intrigue.  He followed the arch of his eyebrows to the bend of his faint frown, followed the line of his jaw and the stubble that shadowed it. Finally, Stiles sighed, shook his head, and returned to his father’s side.

Derek would eventually grab the collar of his shirt and right him when he tripped and nearly landed in a puddle of the neurotoxin.

 

###

 

“Tsuchigumo.”

“Gesundheit,” Stiles answered, smirking.

“Come again?” the Sheriff asked.

“Tsu. Chi. Gu. Mo,” Lydia repeated, annunciating each syllable to teach the class their word of the day.

It took three more weeks, five more disappearances, several sleepless nights, and a pair of questionable chemistry grades to identify the most recent threat to Beacon Hills. Lab toxicology, a couple of Chris’ international contacts, and a pilgrimage Deaton went on confirmed their suspicions. A tsuchigumo.

“It’s a yōkai,” Chris said, as if that explained everything.

It didn’t.

Lydia sighed, rolling her eyes. “A supernatural Japanese folklore monster?” she asked, looking expectantly around their gathered bunch in Chris’ office. “Am I the only one who does the reading?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Scott said, smiling sheepishly.

“You’re all impossible,” Lydia groaned.

“No, we just have our strengths,” Allison chirped. “Homework isn’t Scott’s. Or Stiles’.”

“Um, excuse you,” Stiles countered, “I’m not one of the people who got an acceptable-by-society-but-not-by-my-parent grade on the last chemistry test.” He folded his arms across his chest, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Here’s a hint: it was you,” he said, waving an accusing finger between Scott and Allison. “You two were the ones with not-quite-poor grades.”

“You still suck at homework,” Scott muttered.

“Dude! Monsters ravaging the town! A little more important than balancing equations and solving for X, okay?”

“Enough!” Natalie cut in. She was so full of motherly disappointment and agitation, Scott and Stiles positively cowered beneath her fierce gaze. “What are we going to do about this…this yolk. Yolky?”

“Yōkai,” Lydia whispered.

“Yōkai! Yes. Thank you, Lydia.” Natalie turned to the group. “What are we going to do about this yōkai?”

Chris took a breath and reached for his laptop. After typing a few keys, he spun the screen for the others to see. There, the bestiary entry for the creature was pulled up, the bright screen showing an illustration of some hideous tiger-demon hybrid, huge compared to an average man, and vicious with its extended claws and dripping fangs. “It literally translates to Earth Tiger,” he said. “And it’s said to feast on the flesh of its human prey. It’s an atypical yōkai in that it has multiple forms, some of which are a beautiful woman, a floating skull, a monk, or even a specific disease.”

“What disease?” Melissa asked.

“Malaria,” Chris answered. “Have there been any weird cases?”

“Only a couple,” she said with a slight nod. “Literally two. We just thought it was a spike in the mosquito population.”

“It’s the middle of autumn,” Stiles said.

“And there’s an unusual spike in the mosquito population,” Melissa reiterated, giving Stiles an irritated frown.

“Has anyone seen any floating skulls?” Scott asked. His puppy-dog eyes were big and brown and hopeful. It was his default expression for ‘I don’t know what to do and really hope someone else does.’

“Or beautiful women?” the Sheriff asked. When several pairs of eyes dared him to imply anything unsavory about his present company, he added, “ _Suspiciously_ beautiful women. Not that the women in this room aren’t beautiful. Or are suspicious. Because they aren’t. Suspicious, I mean. Certainly beautiful.”

Stiles playfully elbowed and winked at his father, who hid his face in embarrassment. “Good save, dad.”

“The Stilinski charm appears to be hereditary,” Lydia remarked.

“Seems like it,” Melissa added, smirking.

A professional at getting and keeping the group on track, Natalie clapped her hands together, loud and sharp in the confines of Chris’ meager office. “Anyway! How do we kill this thing?”

“Decapitation,” Chris said. “We find it and cut its head off. Pretty straight forward.”

“For once,” Stiles muttered.

“Yeah,” Chris agreed. “For once.”

 

###

 

It wasn’t straight forward.

Tearing through the forest, leaping over boulders and fallen trees and trying not to slide through patches of damp leaves, Stiles realized just how badly they’d fucked this one up.

First, it wasn’t a tiger-demon hybrid. It was a giant fucking spider. Mistranslation on Chris’ part—and Stiles resented Lydia a bit for not fact-checking him—but _tsuchigumo_ meant Earth Spider, not Earth Tiger. Earth _Tiger_ was just the English name, and bastardization of the original word, for a bunch of totally normal tarantula species living in China. Earth _Spider_ was the yōkai. And it wasn’t just one giant fucking spider they were dealing with. Oh no. It was a whole goddamn nest of them.

“Fuck!” Stiles’ tired legs didn’t propel him high enough in a leap, and he tripped, knocking the wind out of him. It felt like the hit rattled the marrow in his bones. He groaned, climbed to his feet when Allison yanked him up by the back of his hoodie, and kept running.

Second, there was no easy way to track the tsuchigumo, because _they were fucking spiders_. Spiders didn’t have a scent, not really, not one a werewolf could track anyway. But they did have venom, and sticky gross webbing, and a lot of practice catching human prey. When Chris, with all of his experience and skill, had trouble following it, it took two hours of fruitless tracking before anyone realized they were running around in circles, and another two hours for them to figure out they’d been trudging through sacs of venom buried in underbrush. The venom, they learned, released fumes meant to completely confuse and disorient, and was incredibly effective in doing so.

Stiles and Allison skidded to a stop just before tumbling onto a ravine, and this time Stiles grabbed Allison’s sleeve while she teetered to regain her balance.

“Shit!” Stiles spun around to face the woods, where the tsuchigumo skittered and clicked its horrible spider way towards them through the darkness. “Shit shit shit!” He uh’ed and um’ed his way through assessing the surrounding area, his hands clutching and tugging at his hair while he paced. And when an idea finally dawned on him, he clenched his eyes shut and leaned onto his knees. “Fuck.”

“What?” Allison demanded. “What is it, Stiles?”

“Here,” he said, grabbing her by the bicep and dragging her towards the nearest and largest tree. “Get the in the tree. Rain Hell from above so I can get close and cut its damn head off.” He took a knee and laced his fingers together, a sturdy cup to support her weight.

“Stiles, we tried that!” Allison said.

“We have to try again.”

“It didn’t work!” she screamed.

“We don’t have any other options!” Stiles shouted back. Then he sighed and licked his lips, meeting her worried gaze steadily and seriously. “Come on,” he said, softer. “Ally-Oop.”

“You’d better not fucking die,” she hissed, eyes glassy. Then she stepped into his hands and let him toss her upwards. After catching herself on a branch, Allison swung her weight, found her footing and perched herself securely on one of the branches. She loaded an arrow into her crossbow and waited.

Third, the tsuchigumo were fast. Not necessarily viper-fast, though if close enough to their fangs, Stiles assumed they would strike similarly, but Ju-On jerky-fast. Their movements looked like stop-motion animation, or a club-goer beneath a strobe light. It was overwhelming to human senses, and difficult to process; even harder to anticipate. Luckily, everyone had been able to avoid the fangs, but wayward limbs and slamming giant abdomens were nearly impossible to dodge. Most of their energy was spent trying not to get crushed, completely thwarting any opportunity to attack.

Stiles stood in the center of the clearing, the cliff-edge to his back and Allison perched somewhere near his ten o’clock, and drew his pistol. They had no reason to believe the tsuchigumo had particularly sharp eyesight— _they were giant fucking spiders_ —so he hoped the shadows of the branches would help keep her safe.

If she stayed still enough.

If she stayed quiet enough.

If if if.

Between one heartbeat and the next, the tsuchigumo rushed the last few yards of the woods and halted abruptly at the tree line. Aside from its size, movement, and type of prey, it wasn’t too different from a regular spider, and Stiles had crushed plenty with a hard-stomped boot or well-aimed newspaper. It was fuzzy, like any proper tarantula, and black enough to bleed into the surrounding gloom. The color and markings of a tiger highlighted its bulbous abdomen, allowing it to dapple in the play of sunlight in a forest canopy. He tried not to let its twitching, dripping fangs intimidate him. He tried not to worry about how much of his trembling its eight, beady eyes could see. He tried not to consider the pain of his flesh licked from his bones while biological acid pulsed through his veins.

“Stiles!”

He whipped around just as Derek faded from a portal of darkness, tendrils of shadow rising like steam. The hound’s eyes were twin warning flares of bright scarlet, visible only to him. His growl rumbled through Stiles’ chest and skull like a heavy bass line, felt only by him.

The tsuchigumo lunged.

Allison fired her crossbow, loosing an arrow that whistled through the darkness it pierced. It struck the tsuchigumo, jutting from its cephalothorax like an extra limb, but did little to slow it down or distract it.

If anything, the strike pissed it off.

It roared, high and piercing and painful enough for Stiles’ knees to buckle. The sound shorted the neurons of him brain and drowned him. A scream ripped out of him against his will, like his body couldn’t process the onslaught beyond burning his lungs and scorching his throat. His muscles cramped, tight around where he aimed his weapon at the beast. When he fired, it wasn’t because he wanted to. Blood like sap seeped from the tears his bullets made.

Allison, always the stronger of the two of them, maintained her focus despite how her brain had to be rattling in her skull. She fired three more arrows in fast succession, her aim as accurate as ever. Three more hits to the cephalothorax, another agonizing screech.

The tsuchigumo flailed, its camera shutter movement faster, harder to follow, more stilted. From its fangs, it spat hissing acid. From its spinnerets, the white neurotoxin.

Derek grabbed Stiles by the shoulders and yanked him aside to dodge a splattering of venom. “Stiles! Stiles, you have to run.”

“I can’t—ALLY!”

When it got too close to Allison’s tree, Stiles launched himself to his feet and continued firing, shouting to get the creature’s attention. How it slammed the trees around her, how it shook the ground, rattled her weapon from her hands. She clutched her branch and tried not to fall.

“STILES!” Allison screamed.

“Run and it’ll give chase,” Derek insisted. “I’ll make sure of it.” He shoved Stiles. “Go!”

Stiles lurched where Derek shoved him, then fired a few more shots at the tsuchigumo before rounding on Derek with an accusing finger. “Don’t you dare let her get hurt. Don’t let her die. It’s me. Understand? _I’m_ its target.”

Derek nodded, then wrapped himself in shadow, his human-looking form melting into darkness. A moment later, the blackness fell away like a dropped cloak, leaving Derek a large black wolf. With a ravaging howl, he lunged at the creature, sailing through the air with ethereal, lupine grace until he sank his jaws onto the soft patch of flesh were Allison’s arrows stuck clustered together.

Stiles looked where Allison was hanging, where she struggled to pull herself back into the tree. “I’m gonna—” Branches fell, and Stiles swatted at them to protect his face.

The tsuchigumo yowled.

Derek barked and thrashed his head.

“I’m gonna draw it away. Find the others, Ally!”

“Stiles, no!” She was desperate, terrified, but managed to get back into the tree securely.

“I’ll be fine. Just find the others!” Stiles emptied his clip into the fraying flesh Derek shredded, confident his shots wouldn’t affect the hellhound. When his weapon clicked empty shots, he reloaded with a clip from his pocket and took off into the inky black forest.

 

###

 

Stiles hated running. He hated how the cold air burned his lungs with every sucking, gasping breath, hated how the impact of his steps rattled through his ankles and knees, hated how his vision tended to tunnel. He hated running, but it kept him alive so often, he fell into a quick, loping pace with little prompting, the movements and its deep ache familiar to his body.

“Duck left at this next boulder,” Derek said. He leapt into the physical realm through what Stiles was starting to call ‘a shadow portal’ and, human, fell in step beside Stiles as he ran.

“Ally…?” he panted.

“Safe. The yōkai’s dead.”

“Then why…am I still…running?” Stiles wheezed. He ducked left as Derek instructed, but didn’t expect the sudden slope or patch of damp, dead leaves. He slid gracelessly and nearly face-planted, but didn’t lose speed. He kept running.

“Because two more are chasing you.”

“Can’t hear ‘em.”

“They’re in the trees.”

Stiles’ breath whooshed from his lungs when Derek’s large, broad palm slammed between his shoulder blades and pushed. He toppled forward, ass over tea kettle, and tumbled for what felt like miles. His head hit something hard, his arm caught awkwardly beneath him and painfully pulled, and when he finally landed in a wrecked heap, he was breathing raggedly and blinking dumbly up through the night-black forest canopy above him. His head spun, but he maybe heard a roar, perhaps another tsuchigumo screech.

What he did hear, clear and resonating in his skull, was Derek: “Stiles, RUN.”

He scrambled to his feet and continued running.

Daring to glance above, Stiles saw Derek shift from human to wolf seamlessly and without transition, jumping and sliding through the trees as effortlessly as the monsters that chased him. Blink. Human. Blink. Wolf. Blink. Blood. Stiles’ steps faltered when he belatedly leapt over the severed head of a tsuchigumo. Chunks of flesh and heaps of gore pattered around him as he ran, as he was the moving, tiring, human bait to lure the tsuchigumo onto Derek’s murder trail.

The only thing that could stop a hellhound in its objective was its controlling demon or death. The tsuchigumo didn’t stand a chance.

It was comforting to think that as long as he kept running, he’d be okay. Keep running until Derek slaughters them all. Keep running until they’re all dead. Keep running until Derek says to stop.

Just. Keep. Running.

But Stiles was only human, and even adrenaline could only push his exhausted, strung-out body so far. So he slowed and eventually stopped.

It was quiet.

Despite his thundering pulse and his heaving breaths, Stiles felt well and truly alone. Somewhere deep and dark in the preserve, he didn’t hear skittering giant spiders or gunfire, shouts or Derek’s roars. There was no hissing or squelching or blood rain. A weary smile dared to split his face. Instead, he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, trying to breathe through the cold ache in his lungs.

Ice suddenly turned to fire, and Stiles was choking, his head buzzing. He was drowning on dry land.

“STILES!”

Blood bubbled up his throat and dribbled past his gasping lips, mouth hanging open, struggling to fill his chest with air but…but…it was pinned shut.

His limbs were numb, limp, tugging heavily at his joints. He looked down, curious why he was dangling, why he couldn’t breathe, why he felt nothing but knew there should be—would be—excruciating pain.

A barb. A claw. Jutting from his gut, hooked on the snare of his ribcage. Its rough edge scraped along his spine where a bad brain-freeze might start, its vibrations a sick song thrumming through his bones to settle in the base of his skull. He couldn’t feel his legs. He tasted copper, but he couldn’t feel his legs.

Far away, Derek roared.

The barb jostled in Stiles’ body, his appendages flinging about like a ragdoll. Hitting himself in the face would have hurt had he not been so focused on how he could _see_ his legs, but couldn’t _feel_ them. Just as well, because when he dropped, everything collapsed in on itself, like the condensing of a slinky, but much noisier and with much more crunching. His face hit the ground, pain spider-webbing from his cheek—he knew it was fractured.

“Stiles! Stiles, can you hear me?”

When he chuckled, Stiles just coughed up blood.

“Jesus, humans are so fucking fragile,” the hellhound muttered. He pushed him by the shoulders and eased him onto his back. Stiles would have helped if everything wasn’t so fuzzy-numb, if the world would just stop spinning for a hot second.

“Di’ja get ‘em?” Stiles asked, slowly pushing the words out around his heavy tongue. He looked dreamily up into Derek’s stern eyes, glowing crimson. This close, however, Stiles saw the hellhound red hugged his pupil where it shown bright like light—the rest of his iris was that…that _seafoam_ color still.

_So it’s summer. So it’s suicide._

“Yeah,” Derek said. He hooked his elbows under Stiles’ arms and dragged him away from the steaming cadaver of the biggest fucking spider Stiles had ever seen. Derek sat with his back against the trunk of the nearest tree and pulled Stiles between his stretched legs, leaning him against his chest. “I got ‘em.”

“How—” Stiles’ breath hitched. He tried to move, try to settle himself more comfortably so he wasn’t slouching so bad. But he couldn’t move. His legs were weights dragging his hips down. His arms, heavy and tingly, ended in fingers that didn’t move quite right. “H-how bad is…?”

“You’re bleeding out,” Derek said. He rucked up Stiles’ shirt, revealing a gaping hole four inches in diameter. Stiles had only a moment to see it, a split-second to register the gravity of his situation before Derek covered the exit wound with his large hand. Stiles was gently shifted forward, and though he couldn’t quite tell, he imagined Derek’s other hand pressing against the entry wound in his back. “You’re paralyzed.”

“Neurotoxin?” Stiles asked hopefully.

“A couple of your lumbar discs are shattered,” the hound answered. When he pressed his hands towards each other, Stiles grimaced through what pressure he felt. It seemed to please the hound, given the quiet hum he made. He added, “Tore up your spinal cord.”

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed.

Derek murmured, “I told you to run.”

“I did,” Stiles groused. He dug his hands into the dirt and pushed himself up so he wasn’t slouching so much. Huh. His fingers felt normal. “I ran until my legs were fucking noodles.”

“The queen picked up your scent,” Derek said. “I needed you to keep running to lure her out in the open. You didn’t run far enough.”

Stiles snarled, “Oh, so it’s _my_ fault—”

“No,” Derek interrupted. “I should have been faster with the drones.”

“There were a lot of them?” Stiles asked. Over his shoulder, he felt Derek nod. “Look,” he started, trying to turn.

“Stop moving,” Derek bit through clenched teeth.

“Are you...?”

“Healing you,” the hound said. “Yes. Can you feel your legs yet?”

Stiles thoughtfully stared at the tips of his shoes and tried to wiggle his toes. He not only felt the faintest pinpricks—as if his feet had fallen asleep and were just waking up—but saw them press against the rubber toe of his Chucks. “Yeah,” he said. “Starting to.”

“Good,” Derek said. “Now shut up. Let me concentrate. You have a lot of internal damage.”

“One last question.”

Derek harrumphed.

“Is it normal to feel sleepy?”

“Yes. Don’t fight it.”

“But—”

“Your werewolf friend has your scent. He’s leading the others to you now. They’re only a few hundred yards away, and I need to heal you before they get here. So shut up and sleep.”

Stiles focused on the warm press of Derek’s hands on his stomach and back, closed his eyes, and dropped his head back against the soft leather of the hellhound’s jacket. He fell asleep between one heartbeat and the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Stiles quotes is "Little Beast" from _Crush_ by Richard Siken.
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new creature threatens Beacon Hills.

Stiles lied. Stiles lied well, and he lied often. To his friends and family, mostly, and always to protect them. It kept them from looking too closely at him or asking too many questions. Okay, so maybe he sometimes lied to protect himself, too.

He stood before the long mirror hanging on the back of his bedroom door, staring at his pale complexion, the shadows beneath his eyes. “ _Mirrors and shop windows returned our faces to us_ ,” he muttered. He hated the mirror most days, but the few times Lydia dressed him up and stood proudly at his side, admiring her latest success in Making Stiles Look Good were worth it, he supposed. “ _Replete with the tight lips and the eyes that remained eyes and not the doorways we had hoped for_.” And sometimes it helped, reciting lines he all but carved into his memory so long ago. It made things easier.

His cheeks were rosy compared to the rest of him with their embarrassingly splotchy color, courtesy of a hot shower. His hair, pushed back with anxious fingers and still dripping. The towel wrapped around his waist— _narrow_ , Lydia had said; _skinny_ , he had argued, couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to press against a body like his. He was so fucking skinny these days. Couldn’t put on weight no matter what he ate.

Lithe. Frail.

 _Humans are so fucking fragile,_ Derek had said.

Stiles looked it.

Melissa said it was a growth spurt, his body settling into young adulthood.

It hadn’t mattered to Stiles much since he made the Deal. He only had… He glanced to the calendar on the wall near his desk. He only had another nine months to live. It didn’t matter what he looked like—he didn’t have time to change it. It didn’t matter if he got laid—he didn’t have time for a relationship. Nine months. And no one knew.

The towel wrapped around his waist was low enough, white enough, for the pink scars crossing tender skin to show. Pop, almost, and appear dark. He inched his fingers along a scar running from the space between his hip and his ribs down towards his pelvis, slow steps along the gnarled line.

He hadn’t gone to the hospital when the wyvern gutted him back in junior year. Too far too travel, too difficult to explain plausibly. So he’d huddled in Scott’s arms, holding his intestines in place until Melissa and Deaton arrived to stitch him back together. It had been a rushed job, more about saving Stiles’ life than what his body would look like if he survived.

He survived.

And now, with the tsuchigumo, he’d survived again.

Just off-center, between his navel and his solar plexus, Stiles wore a new scar. Lighter than the others, and it looked years healed over instead of hours. A jagged circle, like when a bullet goes through a car door, and no bigger. Smooth to the touch, though faintly tender—he poked at it experimentally despite the ache, testing the strength of demonic healing. Stiles pressed other bruises and touched random scrapes, too. Derek had saved him from his most devastating injury yet, but left the superficial wounds unattended to heal naturally.

His fractured cheek bone contributed to the dark bruise beneath his eye.

“ _His wounds healed_ , _the skin a bit thicker than before_ ,” rumbled behind him. A soft rustle came with Derek’s voice, and then Stiles’ vision blacked out when the tossed t-shirt landed on his wet head.  He snatched it up before his hair could soak it through and turned to find Derek sitting on the sill of the open bedroom window.

The hound picked idly at the chip Stiles had carved out of the mountain ash barrier surrounding the house, the smallest nick that let everything bad in, including Derek. “ _Scars like train tracks on his arms and on his body underneath his shirt_.”

 _Especially_ Derek, all things considered.

But all things considered, maybe not.

Stiles tilted his head to the side and smirked. “Demons read poetry?”

“I was mortal once,” Derek said, bored.

“Not a fallen angel, then. Check.” Stiles shrugged, then studied the shirt clutched in his hands. “But Siken, though?” he implored, skeptical, _shy_.

Derek shrugged. “I enjoyed it.” After a beat, he said, “You’re holding up well.”

“Well, enough,” Stiles agreed, rolling a shoulder. “You know. Considering.”

Derek gaze dropped to Stiles’ abdomen, and those summer pool eyes inched along the trail of the wyvern’s claw as agonizingly slow as Stiles’ fingers had. The scrutiny was intense. Stiles wasn’t sure what Derek was searching for in the uneven ridges of his hastily sewn flesh, but his cheeks flushed fresh and ruddy, and his mouth went dry.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened to you,” Derek murmured. He sounded almost sad. Stiles quickly dismissed it as a strange form of projecting or anthropomorphizing, like when people believe dolphins are happy creatures because they look like they’re smiling. Derek had saved his life, given him his dad back—maybe Stiles was imaging the worry in his voice. But just like dolphins were porpoises, Derek was a hellhound. It would be stupid for him to assume anything human about him.

“No,” Stiles said, “and it probably won’t be the last. Now that I know how strong your demon mojo is, I’m gonna do all sorts of reckless shit.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows, then chuckled when Derek sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You’re ridiculous,” the hellhound bemoaned.

Stiles fell quiet and hooked his thumb along the edge of the towel. He took the moment, rare as it was, to study Derek. Even as the hound’s head remained lowered from his previous display of annoyance, his eyelashes fluttered with how his gaze tracked the movement—Stiles huffed, lips quirking.

He tried to imagine Derek mortal. Was the face he wore for Stiles the one he’d been born with? Stiles liked it, was the only one he knew, so he thought of Derek—this Derek—with his tall frame stretched out on a bed, one hand tucked behind his head, the other holding _Crush_ open on his chest. In this image, the sunlight was inconsistent because of how it filtered through a tree just outside a bedroom window, leaves blowing in a gentle breeze. Maybe Derek read with the window open to let the fresh air in, to let the beginning bite of autumn fill the room. Stiles thought of Derek in a soft sweater instead of the leather jacket, woolen socks on his feet instead of his boots.

“Reciting poetry again?” Derek asked, suddenly.

“Huh? What?” Stiles blinked and shook his head. It reminded him his hair was still wet, cold drops sprinkling his bare shoulders.

“Were you reciting your poetry again?”

He chuckled, embarrassed. “What? Why would I be reciting poetry?”

“You…quiet when you think of it, or, when I assume you’re thinking of it,” Derek said, shrugging.

Stiles arched an eyebrow.

“Your emotions,” the hound clarified. He made a vague gesture towards his chest. “They were quiet when you were reciting lines in the mirror. I’ve felt them go quiet before. Figured that was poetry, too.”

“Like when?” he challenged, jutting out his chin.

“The night your father came home, when you were drunk—”

_I could drown in those eyes, I said._

“—and while I was healing you.”

_So it’s summer. So it’s suicide._

“A few other times, too, but I wasn’t there. Just felt it.”

With a shy laugh, Stiles said, “Yeah, I guess I go through lines, sometimes. It, uh, it centers me, sometimes. Because I know them so well. Or something makes me think of them.” He shrugged. Somehow, talking about the poetry he so loved left him feeling more naked and vulnerable than the towel he wore. “What about you?”

“I don’t remember much,” Derek said. “Of poetry. Some lines, maybe. The memory of the feeling, but I might just be picking up on them from you.”

“I meant, ‘what centers you?’ but that answer works, too,” Stiles chuckled. Derek’s cheeks flushed, and he didn’t mention it. Instead, he tightened the towel and crossed his room to the bookcase beside his desk. Kneeling before it, he touched the various spines, counting almost, reading their vertically ascending text quickly until he found his battered, well-read and well-loved copy of _Crush_. He pulled it from where it nestled neatly between some of books he’d read with his mother and stood, triumphant. “Here,” he said, approaching Derek with the book outstretched.

Derek’s eyes flicked skeptically between the black and white cover and Stiles’ hopeful half-smile. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Read it.”

“But I’ve read it before.”

“Read it again,” Stiles said. He shoved it into Derek’s hands, then turned to his dresser where he pulled out clothes. After sliding on a pair of boxers beneath the towel, he tossed the damp terrycloth onto the edge of the bed and pulled on the shirt Derek had tossed at him. “It’s been quiet since the tsuchigumo. You probably won’t have to protect my dad and me from much for a while. Might as well reread it in the down time, ya know?” He shimmied into a pair of jeans as he talked. “Unless you see a different book you want to read. You’re welcome to whatever I’ve got.”

“I’m a hellhound, Stiles,” Derek said, as if Stiles needed reminding.

“You were mortal once,” Stiles answered, smirking over his shoulder. “I don’t imagine they have much literature in the Pit. Come on. Live a little, Derek.”

Derek looked at the book he held, thumbing carefully through the pages, no doubt studying the notes and underlining Stiles had done. He traced the rough edges of the Scotch tape Stiles had used over the years to keep the pages in place. “Maybe,” he said.

“Just be careful with it,” Stiles said. “I’ve had that book for years. Sentimental, you know?”

Derek met his gaze and held it fast for a few heartbeats before arching an eyebrow. He extended the book for Stiles to take. “Maybe I shouldn’t take it, then.”

Exasperated, Stiles clicked his tongue before saying, “It’s not, like—” He sighed. “It’s not like my mom gave it to me or anything. There was this guy, a few years older than me, and his family was kind of a big deal in Beacon Hills. He was in the station one day with his parents for…something or other, something bad. I was, like, twelve or something, I think, and he was reading. He was a wreck. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone so sad since my mom died. So, like, I tried to talk to him, cheer him up or whatever. I don’t know if it worked. I was kid and even more obnoxious than I am now, but before he left, he gave me that book.” Without taking it from Derek’s hands, he opened the book tapped the inked initials near the top corner of the inside flap: D.H. “His name was Derek, too, actually.” And Stiles smirked like it was amusing.

“Anyway,” he continued, “he died a few weeks later. He was seventeen.”

“So some random guy gave you the book before he died and, what? That means something?” But Derek dropped his gaze to the initials, and couldn’t seem to look aloof if he’d tried harder.

Stiles shrugged and said, “I don’t know, man. There wasn’t much left once everything was said and done, but I had this book. And the spine was already cracked and the pages soft at the edges and stuff. Like, clearly he loved this book. He gave it to me, and then he died. And, I don’t know. I didn’t know him, not really, but I knew _of_ him and I’d seen him around and he was always nice enough. I felt like maybe this was all that was left of him and I had to keep it safe, ya know?”

“That’s a heavy burden for a twelve year old,” Derek said. When he looked up, his smile was a little patronizing. “He was a stranger to you. Besides, I’m sure he had family.”

“Jeez,” Stiles scoffed. “Way to shit on a guy’s feelings. Damn. It just always felt disrespectful, okay? To get rid of it or do anything besides read it and love it, too. It seemed wrong. So, like, I kept and read it and loved it.” He waved an accusing finger at Derek, but he couldn’t stop himself from sounding fond when he added, “And you’d better be just as respectful, you heartless bastard.”

Derek smirked and nodded. “Sure thing.” He tucked the book into his jacket, then leaned against the side of the window. He sat there quietly, watching Stiles.

“By the way,” Stiles started, switching gears. It was hard to talk about _Crush_ and the boy who’d given it to him. There were unnamable feelings he’d never thought to unpack—things like guilt and grief that were too strong to justify—and he certainly wasn’t going to do it with his hellhound.

He shrugged on a hoodie. The open window made the room chilly, and he grabbed the towel to run it through his hair. “About the tsuchigumo. Everyone asked what happened, but considering I passed out at some point while you were repairing my spine, I didn’t have much of a story until they mentioned the bloody machete they found beside me. So I told them I hacked its head off.”

Derek smirked, smug.

“Thanks for that, by the way,” Stiles said. “The cover.”

The hellhound nodded. “Thanks for the book.”

When Stiles blinked a drop of water from his eye, Derek was gone.

 

###

 

Stiles liked to think he improved the asset value of his father when he decided to tell him about werewolves. A Sheriff who knew what went bump in the night was able to use his influence and the unfaltering loyalty of his staff to keep the populous, and the secret dangers they faced, safe. So, when schools within a certain area were suddenly evacuated, news stations reported bomb threats, or rogue wildlife. It wasn’t necessarily commonplace, but it also wasn’t particularly surprising.

When classes were abruptly cancelled, Stiles, Lydia, Allison, and Scott congregated within view of the front pick up area of Beacon Hills High. Like so many other aspects of their well-oiled machine, they waited for their parents’ texts. They’d be told what they needed to know and figure out what they needed to do, but until then, they had to look like all the other bewildered and inconvenienced students of their school. So they waited.

Stiles sat on a wall housing unnecessary flowerbeds and swung his feet so his heels bumped the brick. He perused his phone: checking his email, checking his texts, playing a round of Candy Crush—anything to pass the time that wasn’t homework. Until they got word from their parents, there wasn’t much for them to do. Experience taught them the school was the safest place for them, the most reliable alibi.

About a month had passed since they hunted the tsuchigumo, but the others still seemed to fear for Stiles’ life. They made a point of hovering as close as possible without physically limiting him, so when Allison pressed along the length of his side, he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t exactly mind the physical contact, especially since his days were literally numbered. Without thinking, he wrapped his arm around her and ran his thumb along her shoulder. He didn’t need to look up from his phone, and Allison knew not to bother trying to get him to.

“Stiles,” Lydia said, wedging her hip between his thigh and the edge of the wall. “Do you have an admirer you haven’t told us about?”

 _That_ made Stiles abandon his high score and scoff, amused. “What?” But his hand fell away from its intimate-looking touch of Allison anyway…just in case.

Lydia made a vague but discreet gesture towards the back of the parking lot, near where a few out-of-commission busses sat. Disguised as twirling fingers to play with her hair, she made her observation clear and turned to face Stiles instead of leaning beside him.

He surreptitiously looked over her shoulder, and there, conspicuous as possible, stood Derek in his dark clothes and black leather jacket against one of bright yellow busses. He seemed cavalier as could be with one foot propped against a worn-down tire and Stiles’ copy of _Crush_ held open in one palm. Every so often, bright spots of red flashed as Derek glanced up from his reading to watch his charge.

Stiles stared just a little too long, and Lydia noticed.

“Someone you’re seeing?” she asked, smug, with a raised eyebrow. “He’s handsome.”

_No no no._

“Who?” Allison asked. Her smile was pleasant, as if Lydia has said something particularly delightful, but the playful glint in her dark eyes made it apparent she was just as interested in Stiles’ assumed love life as Lydia.

“Yeah, Lyds,” Stiles tried teasing. “Who?”

“Over by the busses,” Lydia said. She flipped a lock of her hair and casually looked over her shoulder again. “Bad boy with a book.”

Stiles slid on his best poker face and pretended to look everywhere but at Derek. He made a bit of a show of scanning the parking lot.

“I don’t see anyone,” Scott said. He leaned against the wall beside Allison, his hand casually covering hers. “Don’t smell anyone, either.”

Thank God for Scott McCall.

Lydia demanded, exasperated, “Are you kidding? He sticks out like a sore thumb! Black jacket, glowering, hunched shoulders?”

“Nope,” Allison agreed. “It’s, um, kinda just us now. Seems like everyone else has headed home.”

Lydia huffed and abandoned all pretenses of discretion. She spun around, and while Stiles anticipated her blatantly _pointing_ at Derek, she didn’t. “How can you—”

Derek flashed his eyes, and his growl echoed in Stiles’ mind.

Lydia fell silent. When she turned back around, she wore a forced smile. Once upon a time, Stiles would have thought she was embarrassed or completely fed up with trying to argue, pushing sweetness to avoid confrontation. But he knew Lydia. It was fear in her smile—was she seeing things? Were her powers flaring? He’d talked to her about it enough. “Nevermind,” she said. “You’re right. The lot’s empty. It must have been my imagination.”

“Pretty vivid imagination,” Stiles said gently, grinning. “Almost as vivid as my own when I’m _alone_.”

“Oh, gross!” Lydia said.

“Maybe it’s a vision related to whatever’s going on?” Allison offered.

Scott nodded, his smile warm. “Yeah. It’ll probably make sense once we hear from our folks.”

As if on cue, their phones chimed in an uncoordinated echo.

The message was from Melissa: photos of wounds and symptoms from the morgue’s newest cadaver.     

“Bite marks,” Scott muttered, studying his phone.

“Fangs,” Allison added. “Punctures here and here.” She pointed at his screen, but Stiles glanced over to watch her analysis.

Their phones chimed again, this time from the Sheriff.

“Guess we’re meeting at my place,” Allison said. “Haven’t gone grocery shopping in a while, so we’ll order Chinese.”

“Sweet!” Scott and Stiles high-fived.

As they disbanded to head to their cars, Stiles saw Derek track Lydia’s movements, his gaze heavy, dogging her. She hurried to her car, but tried not appear hurried. He’d seen her do it before, back when the hushed whispers of students hounded her every step. That was before they learned she was a banshee, back when she’d thought she was delusional.

Climbing into the Jeep, Stiles saw Lydia run her fingers through her hair, then grip her steering wheel. She closed her eyes tight, and her rose-tinted lips moved in a familiar mantra of muttered words: _“It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”_

Stiles didn’t start his car until Lydia collected herself and started hers, then he followed her to Allison’s apartment.

 

###

           

“Animal attacks,” the Sheriff said.

Stiles’ laughed, then choked when a piece of lo mein went down the wrong way. He pounded his chest as he cough, and Scott sympathetically rubbed his back. Eyes watering, he continued to chuckle.

“That’s what we’re calling them. And until we know otherwise, that’s sort of what it is.” He gave his son a pointedly annoyed look, his frown aging him more than necessary.

“Sorry,” Stiles said, unapologetically. “Just, you know, nostalgia.”

“Sure, kid,” the Sheriff sighed.

“But do we have any idea what it actually could be?” Allison asked. She sat at her father’s desk, her brow furrowed as she started at the laptop screen. She scrolled what had to be miles through the bestiary. “So we have fangs. But not like elongated canine teeth. Like…fang fangs.” She mimed the presence of them with two hooked fingers in front of her mouth. It reminded Stiles of a snake. “ _Fangs_.”

“How reliable would just looking at the damage be, though?” Stiles asked around a mouth of food. He swallowed and set his lo mein container on the desk, then pushed himself from where he leaned against the arm of the couch. He approached the white board where photos of the victims and copies of reports were pinned. Maps and notes and excerpts from the bestiary. Chris had been hard at work trying to solve the mystery before anyone had even shown up for Chinese, before the authorities thought the high school should be dismissed early. “Like, when the alpha that bit Scott was running around, the attacks were blamed on mountain lions. Werewolves, and even normal wolves, are totally different types of predators than mountain lions, but the professionals just, like…dismissed it. Called out the most prevalent apex predator, even though mountain lions don’t really predate on humans. I mean, neither do wolves, really, but—”

“No,” the Sheriff said. He made a decisive swipe with his hand. “That’s not what happened, Stiles.”

“Oh? Then what was it?” Stiles challenged, raising an eyebrow.

“We had a slew of viciously maimed bodies with damage so extensive only an animal could have caused it,” the Sheriff said, but his voice was rising, his words clipped. “We had a public on the verge of panic and we had to give them _something_. Something to cling to, to fight against. Mountain lions, though unlikely culprits, were that thing.”

“And that sent us—” Stiles gestured to their team gathered in Chris’ study. “—the people who _know_ what’s out there—in the totally wrong direction for so long, the body count just continued to rise.”

“What’s your point, Stiles?” Natalie interrupted.

With a sigh, Stiles waved towards the board he stood beside. “This! What’s the point of this?!”

“We’re figuring it out,” Chris said. “It’s honestly all we can do.”

It wasn’t good enough.

The realization hit him hard enough to steal his breath.

Figuring it out led to Victoria getting bitten, because they hadn’t realized how massive and fast the alpha had been until it was too late. Figuring it out led to Stiles nearly bleeding out in Scott’s arms, because they hadn’t realized how many barbs the wyvern had until it was too late. Figuring it out led to Allison nearly getting killed by a giant fucking spider, because they didn’t know the tsuchigumo were giant fucking spiders until it was too late.

The only reason they’d survived the tsuchigumo was because Stiles sold his soul and had a hellhound to keep him alive. He could throw himself into the fray— _had_ thrown himself into the fray—and knew he’d come out the other side alive. But he only had about eight months left. In eight months, he’d be dead and gone, then who would be the bullet fodder to buy the others time? Who would be there to lead the spiders away and take the hit?

No, it wasn’t good enough. Nothing in their system was good enough for Stiles. Not anymore. Not when he knew they would eventually have to continue without him. Not when he knew he wouldn’t be there to protect them.

“Planning seems to fuck us up more than going in blind,” Stiles said.

“You can’t be serious,” Scott said. “It’s always better to have a plan—you’ve even said as much in the past!”

“Our plans are shit!” Stiles snapped. He absently rubbed his demon-healed puncture wound. Even though his back was good a new, he almost felt the ache of where his lumbar discs had shattered. “It’s better going in knowing we know nothing than thinking we know something. Or rather, assuming we know something.”

“Stiles…” Allison softly pleaded.

“No, Ally.” He glared at her, but was angrier with the room, with their plans, with their whole broken system than anything else. “We didn’t do a good enough job. We didn’t catch the mistranslation.” Lydia dropped her gaze to the floor, guilty though Stiles hadn’t meant to make her feel such. He continued anyway. “And we almost fucking died.”

“ _You_ almost died,” Allison hissed.

Stiles swallowed hard, and the warmth and pain and fear he’d felt as Derek laid on hands to heal him rushed back like a flood. He almost died, but he hadn’t. Because of Derek. Because Derek would kill him in less than a year, and Stiles wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —die a moment sooner. “Yeah,” he said, licking his lips. “I almost died.”

“Autopsy reports are in,” the Sheriff said, waving his blinking phone. He liked talking about Stiles’ close calls about as much as Stiles liked talked about the Sheriff’s.

“What’s the news?” Chris asked.

Melissa took the Sheriff’s hand to look at the phone, but as she scrolled through the information, her expression melted from concentration to confusion. “Calcification.”

“What do you mean?”

“Internal organs were calcified,” she said, meeting Chris’ eyes. “Like, bone growth on and around soft tissue. Hard as rocks. Joints and small bones merged together around the bite site.”

“Anything from toxicology?”

“‘Statistically significant presence of unknown trace elements’,” she quoted. “But nothing is specified.”

“It’s a basilisk,” Stiles blurted. When the room turned to him as a collective whole, he added with a shrug, “Or a gorgon.”

“Why’s that?” Natalie asked. “You just—” She nodded to the board, to Stiles, his rant, his anger.

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, trying to keep the snark from his voice. It wasn’t Natalie’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. They were all doing the best they could, but their best wasn’t good enough anymore. And he couldn’t tell them why. “What else can turn people into stone?”

 

###

 

“Good job IDing the creature,” Lydia said to Stiles.

The meeting disbursed not too long after Stiles’ bold declaration. The adjuring note: a unanimous decision to further research and, most importantly, _wait_ for more information before attempting to engage the creature. Stiles wanted to believe he’d convinced them with his sound logic, but he knew their acquiescence came from an emotional place. Stiles had the most recent brush with death—of course they’d agree to assuage whatever lingering fears he had. And if he demanded more time and research, well, they certainly wouldn’t deny him that.

On the drive home, Stiles’ phone dinged with a text from Lydia, asking if she could come over for a while. Stiles could count on one hand the number of times he’d said ‘no’ to Lydia Martin, and he wouldn’t allow this to be an addition to that miniscule number. That was how Lydia wound up sitting on his bed, exhausted and with the barest puffiness around her eyes, praising Stiles’ deductive reasoning skills.

“Thanks,” he answered, automatically, swaying in his desk chair. He quickly followed with, “But we still don’t know for sure, yet, so—”

“It’s a start. Calcification understood as stone,” she said. She slid from her seat on the bed to sit on the floor, and rested her cheek on her knees after drawing them to her chest. Tracing an abstract pattern in the carpet, she said, “It’s clever. You’re clever.”

Stiles shrugged. “I guess.” He held a pen in his hand he tapped against his chin. “But I don’t think stroking my ego is what brought you over here. What’s going on, Lyds? You’ve been…distracted…since school let out.” He tracked the patterns she traced, watched her fingertip swirl and curl, as if following the lines of the sun’s corona. One stroke ruffled the carpet fibers, and the next smoothed them over. It unsettled him to see her so disconnected, so he abandoned his desk chair to sit beside her on the floor.

After moving her hand to accommodate his company, Lydia resumed her patterns. It followed the outline of Stiles’ hand, where they hung from forearms resting against his folded legs.

Stiles belatedly realized the weight of Lydia’s innocent tracing.

“Did you really not see anything in the parking lot?” she asked.

His shadow. The wisps of darkness. Derek’s claim on his soul.

_Fuck!_

“No,” he lied. “I didn’t see anything.”

“I can tell when you’re lying,” Lydia sighed. “You were lying then, and you’re lying now. You saw something.”

“No,” Stiles insisted, corrected. “I believe you saw something.”

Lydia’s voice wavered when she said, “I feel like I’m going crazy again.”

Stiles snatched Lydia’s hand from where it drew on the carpet and held it between both of his, squeezing until she reluctantly met his gaze. “I don’t think it was your imagination, or your mind playing tricks. I think it was your banshee powers.” He licked his lips, and leaned close enough to gently bump his forehead against hers. “I’ve never thought you were crazy. Ever. Do you understand? I’ve always believed you, I’ve always believed _in_ you, and I’ve always come when you’ve screamed. I always will.”

“The man I saw…he wasn’t one of the victims,” she argued weakly.

“He might be one of the next ones,” Stiles answered. “You _predict_ death. The two victims we learned about were dead before the parking lot.”

“He didn’t have wounds.”

“He doesn’t have to have wounds to be a prediction.”

“I didn’t predict your dad.”

“My dad didn’t die.”

“But he almost did! In fact, he _should have_ , given his injuries.”

Stiles tried not to flinch. “But he didn’t.”

“ _You_ should have died,” Lydia pushed. She took her hand from Stiles’ grasp and pressed it against his chest where the tsuchigumo queen had impaled him.

He hadn’t thought anyone had seen the scars, but of course someone had. He’d been unconscious, covered in blood. Of course he’d been checked for injuries.

“Don’t you get it?” Lydia said. “I’m a shit banshee and a liability to the cause. I’m coming apart at the seams, and I’ll only—”

“Lydia, stop,” Stiles interrupted. Her nails scraped his chest when she fisted his t-shirt, and he put a hand over hers. “Just…none of that is true. We’re all fumbling through this supernatural business blind. Not even Chris knows everything, and he’s the most experienced of us. You’re one of two supernatural teens still figuring their shit out. You think Scott knows anything about being a werewolf? Do you have any idea how long I had to coach him through not destroying lacrosse equipment? It was sad, really. And expensive.”

Lydia quirked a small smile, and Stiles considered it a job well done. He cupped her face and stroked her cheek. “You are one of the most brilliant and resourceful women I’ve ever met, and you have a strong foundation for support when you need it, okay? Just trust your instincts and stop questioning your own sanity. You know how you know you’re not insane? You wonder about it. Insane people don’t think they’re insane.”

“But if I start believing I’m sane even though I see and hear things, doesn’t that just support the hypothesis that I am, in fact, insane?”

“No,” Stiles said, seriously. “It means you trust that you’re a banshee.”

“What if I’m not a banshee at all? What if my predictions are just coincidental and I really am insane?”

“‘Once is an incident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern,’” Stiles recited. “Or so says my dad. More than that, well…” He shrugged. “You’re a banshee. Stop fighting me on this.”

“When have I ever stopped fighting you?” Lydia breathed.

They were still close from when Stiles had leaned forward, and Lydia tilted her head so their noses brushed. Flush nearly from shoulder to hip, Stiles became acutely aware of every place he and Lydia touched. If she felt his heart hammering in his chest, she didn’t mention it. She did, however, nuzzle him a bit more and flutter her lashes slightly. He’d never seen her eyes such an amazing array of viridescent colors before, and holy shit, her cheeks were so beautifully rosy and oh, my God, her plush lips were a mere breath from his. Was this really happening?

He’d wanted Lydia for so long, the want itself was woven into the very fiber of his being—who was Stiles Stilinski if he wasn’t heart-eyes for Lydia Martin?—and here she was, leaning in like an offer, like a ‘yes’ if only he’d ask the question. But even if it was so, Stiles couldn’t. Even if Stiles wanted—and he did; he wanted so much—he couldn’t.

Because he’d be dead in eight months and he knew it. If it were sudden, unpredictable, unknown, perhaps. But Stiles did know, down to the moment, when he would die, and with that knowledge came responsibility. He couldn’t hurt Lydia like that, no matter how unappealing dying alone and a virgin seemed. Losing a friend would hurt, sure. Losing a…whatever this moment might lead to would be something else entirely. Something worse, possibly.

“Never,” he said, finally answering her question. When he pulled away, he added, “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He settled for kissing her forehead and hoped he wasn’t making the biggest mistake of his short-lived life.

“Stiles,” Lydia murmured, and it sounded like a plea.

“It’s late,” he said softly.

She sniffled. Her voice was wet. “Yeah, you’re right.” Lydia pulled away so quickly, the waves of her strawberry blond hair hid her expression from Stiles’ view. For once, Stiles was grateful for missing the opportunity to see her face.

Lydia gathered her purse and shoes, and quickly left Stiles’ bedroom. He didn’t follow her or see her out. But he winced when he heard the front door slam, and he swallowed thickly when her car’s engine faded into the distance.

“Fuck!” Stiles sent his desk chair careening into his desk with a vicious kick, then buried his head in his hands and tried not to cry. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

“She might have, if you asked nicely.”

“Fuck me, Derek, really?” Stiles whined. He was used to the hound’s rough, rumbling voice, and his terrible timing, but he didn’t appreciate it. Not now. Not when he’d upset Lydia and denied himself a life-long fantasy in one fell swoop.

“I might, if you ask nicely.”

Dropping his hands, Stiles looked up to find the hellhound leaning against the edge of his desk with _Crush_ tucked against his hip. One of Derek’s thick eyebrows ticked slightly upward, though the rest of his chiseled features were painfully deadpan and totally unhelpful.

“Your sense of humor sucks,” Stiles groused with a sigh. “Your timing, more so.”

“Who said anything about humor?”

Stiles climbed angrily to his feet. “I am definitely one thousand percent not okay with what just happened between me and Lydia, and I’d really rather not have my goddamned hellhound bodyguard-executioner poke fun at me for it, alright? Just lay off, for once.”

Derek carefully set the book down on the desk, then took two intentional steps towards Stiles and shoved his hands into his pockets. There was still a socially acceptable distance between them, but with the intensity of Derek’s seafoam—Stiles finally decided on the color—eyes, he might as well have slammed Stiles against the wall and loomed in his face.

“You love her, don’t you?” The way he said it felt like Derek was challenging him.

Stiles swallowed, remained silent, and stood his ground.

“You _love_ her,” this time softer, and Derek tilted his head slightly.

“Not like that,” Stiles murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not anymore.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Snarling, Stiles said, “Look, man, I don’t know where you get off thinking you know anything about me and Lydia, but she’s not just some…some hook-up, alright? I hate the idea of dying without ever being loved like that. I hate the idea of dying a virgin. But I don’t have time to go out and change those things, okay? I’m kinda too busy protecting the people I love from getting killed. And I’m certainly not going to use _Lydia_ to cross a few things off my bucket list. Fuck you for even suggesting it.”

“That’s not what I suggested.”

Stiles' indignity faltered, his energy waning. The familiar pull of anger faded into the equally familiar pinch of confusion. Brows, mouth, nose—he was baffled often enough to _feel_ when he wore the expression. “W-What?”

“I didn’t suggest you use Lydia.”

“Then what are you suggesting?” Somehow, Derek drifted closer to him without Stiles noticing, and it was unnerving to finally realize it. The hound could reach out and touch him without completely extending his elbow, a proximity much less socially acceptable than the last one Stiles had registered.

“ _I wanted to take him home_ ,” Derek murmured, and Stiles shivered in recognition of the line. Derek didn’t touch him, but his voice felt like a caress. _Little Beast_. _Crush_. His beloved poetry. If those lines didn’t describe a sort of crazed, self-destructive passion, Stiles didn’t know what did. “ _And rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his like a crash test car._ ”

“Is that so?” Stiles quipped, trying in vain to mask his sudden rush of nerves.

Derek hummed.

“Why?” he couldn’t help but ask. He had a knack for self-denial, for mucking up opportunities that presented themselves. With Lydia, the reasons were obvious—protect her, don’t use her. With Derek, not so much. He was a demon after all. But Derek was close enough to smell, close enough to share breath with Stiles, another movement Stiles had been too distracted to track. The heat of the hound’s body tingled along the entire length of Stiles’ front, and they weren’t even _touching_.

“It’s what you want.”

“Is it what you want?”

Derek jerked back a fraction, just a fraction, but it was complete, and it was enough for a gust of cold air to rush into the space were so much heat had crackled between them.

It snapped Stiles out of his clouding his judgement. So before Derek could move any farther away or withdraw any further from whatever they were building toward, Stiles grabbed him by the biceps. His fingers, firm, clutched the leather of his jacket, and he offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Derek, I appreciate you wanting to help me out, man, but I don’t want to be a pity fuck. And I don’t want to avoid using Lydia just because I care about her. I don’t want to use _anybody_ , ya know? So I’m not about to just get all up on this—” He made a gesture towards Derek’s everything. “—just to check a box in the ‘Experiences’ section of my life. I’m not that kind of guy.” He released his hold on Derek. Had he the space to take a step back from the hound, he would have. As it was, Stiles settled for sitting on the bed to offer space.

“I’m a hellhound,” Derek said. It was so simple, so sure, as if it were all the justification necessary for Stiles to proceed.

It wasn’t. Not for Stiles.

“You were mortal once,” Stiles countered, his smile falling into something closer to a smirk. It hurt to feel like a charity. It hurt more to feel like Derek’s obligation. There were bigger things than sexual experience in Stiles’ life, however; like keeping his friends and family alive, keeping them safe for as long as he could. The rest wasn’t so important from such a perspective.

Besides, despite Derek being a demon, the terms of Stiles’ contract included nothing beyond preserving his pristine physical health.

Looking down to his bedspread, Stiles picked at a stray thread and said, “Though, if you wanted to, like, kiss me, I’d be okay with that. But only if you want to, alright? No pressure. Because you’re really _really_ unfairly hot, and, well, I can’t really do anything about Peter being my first kiss, but I’d really like for him not to be my only kiss, you kn—”

Kissing Derek was nothing like kissing Peter.

Where Peter took, Derek gave. His hands were gentle where they cradled Stiles’ face, the angle absolutely perfect: Stiles didn’t strain awkwardly to reach Derek’s lips, but Derek had enough leverage to press, and caress, and lavish Stiles’ mouth with his own. The edge of the hound’s stubble bit wonderfully down Stiles’ demon-repaired spine with every spark of sensation. The warmth of Derek’s tongue was a fleeting thing, tender and shy until Stiles’ gasped and hauled Derek closer by the lapels of his jacket. Derek pressed closer, too, and pushed a knee between Stiles’ spread thighs to rest his weight, clearly encouraged. His breath ramped with every helpless sound Stiles couldn’t keep quiet.

Stiles’ hands abandoned Derek’s jacket and, instead, were buried in Derek’s soft hair, holding him desperately closer until the kiss devolved into breathing each other’s air and nuzzling with the drag of parted lips across cheeks and jawlines. When Stiles went for Derek’s neck, the hound slowed down, and, unknowingly following his lead, Stiles slowed down, too.

“Hell of a kiss,” he panted into Derek’s neck. “Wow. No complaints here.”

Derek hummed into Stiles’ temple.

“Can we do this again sometime?”

“If you want,” Derek answered, carefully pulling away. He stayed close, despite how he no longer leaned into Stiles’ space.

Stiles, pliant and kiss-drunk, swayed with Derek’s absence before righting himself and adjusting his dick. It pulsed painfully against the zipper of his jeans, and he grimaced as he tried to find a more comfortable position. Despite this, he was cognizant enough to say, “And if you want, too. This is a two-way street, buddy. We both have to be down for making out in order for making out to happen. And I am totally, one hundred percent down.” He smirked, shamelessly ogling Derek—the light dusting of pink just above the line of his stubble, how his lips were red and slick, how the seafoam of his eyes was lost to the vastness of his blown pupils. “If I had known this sort of thing was possible, I’d have sold my soul ages ago,” he joked.

Sadness colored Derek’s faint frown as he reached out and traced Stiles’ bottom lip with his thumb. “Don’t say that.”

“You’re underestimating how awesome of a kiss that was.”

“And you’re underestimating the value of your soul.”

It was Stiles’ turn to become saddened. “I don’t regret it, you know. Saving my dad. Not a bit. I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I had to.”

“I know,” Derek said. Like so much else with Derek, it felt heavier than those two simple words. Maybe Stiles was still kiss-drunk. The hound let his hand fall from Stiles’ face, then turned back to the desk where _Crush_ sat. “Thanks for letting me borrow the book. I enjoyed reading it.”

“You’re very welcome. Thank you for the amazing kiss.”

A small smile pulled at Derek’s kiss-swollen mouth. “You’re very welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I'm very much in love with "Little Beast" from _Crush_ by Richard Siken. I also very much enjoy the idea of the characters using steamy lines as foreplay.
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles confronts the basilisk...and Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so as it was pointed out, this chapter was up for, like, maybe 20 minutes before I took it down. I hadn't meant to post it--I wanted to reread it one last time before making that commitment--but it was 4am for me and I screwed up. So, here's the actual chapter posted with full intent, as edited as I can manage on a little less than five hours of sleep. I'm honestly not entirely pleased with the flow, so I might go back and edit, but the plot points, the reveals--*those* things will stay the same. So if you take the time to read this version, and I tweak it a little later, you won't have to reread and or worry about missing anything. Promise!

It took three more victims with inexplicable and baffling calcification for Stiles to gain confidence in his basilisk theory. It took another five days of research and translation verification for Stiles to rule out the possibility of a gorgon. Once he was sure every other avenue had been exhausted, he agreed to making a plan of attack. Another three days passed before their team was ready to hunt.

“You should sleep,” Derek murmured, like maybe he was trying to avoid disturbing fragile quiet of the night.

Stiles was just as quiet when he answered, but it was more so his dad wouldn’t hear him. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”

The kiss hadn’t changed as much between he and Derek as Stiles thought it would. Not that Stiles suddenly expected a relationship—a relationship with a _demon_ —or anything after one reality-bending kiss, but Derek took to aborted motions and stunted words in the days following. The hound showed himself more, that was for sure—during class, or even in the kitchen fixing dinner, Stiles saw Derek’s shape, just out of focus, lingering in scant shadows—but Stiles couldn’t even begin to parse what it meant, if anything at all.

Thankfully, Stiles was hardly modest, so Derek’s increased presence did little to shame him from his masturbatory habits. Given the kiss—God, that _kiss_ —Stiles could hardly keep his hand from his dick the moment he stepped into the shower. And if Derek could sense Stiles’ emotions, as he claimed, it was wasted energy to try hiding his desire.

Stiles huffed and punched his pillow into a shapelier lump before flopping onto his side—a fruitless endeavor towards sleep. He stared, fixated, at a random spot of the wall hard enough for shadows to swirl the edges of his vision. Derek sat in the far corner of the room, had been since Stiles turned the light out—Stiles felt his gaze between his shoulder blades, and pulled the blanket higher.

“You’re worried,” the hound deduced aloud.

With a sigh, Stiles said, “We hunt tomorrow night.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

It was Derek’s turn to sigh. “Your friends will be fine, too.”

“They don’t have demonic protection,” Stiles argued around a jaw-cracking yawn.

“They have you.”

Scoffing, Stiles thrashed until he lay on his opposite side, no longer facing the wall, but the hound on the opposite side of his room. From the darkness, Derek watched him with his glowing scarlet eyes; eyes that somehow—probably the kiss—no longer seemed sinister, but warm. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? _Humans are so fucking fragile_ , remember? Besides, I’m gonna be dead soon, anyway.”

There was a heartbeat’s hesitation before Derek said, “Humans are very fucking fragile. Sacks of tender meat held together with soft skin and brittle bone. But you’re more than your body, Stiles, and you’re exceptionally resilient. You shouldn’t worry yourself to insomnia.”

“I never sleep before a hunt,” Stiles dismissed, pointedly ignoring Derek’s acknowledgement of his strength. It sounded like something his mother might have told him, that he was more than his body.

“Sleep. You should be at peak performance for your team.”

“It’s not that simple, Derek,” Stiles hissed.

“It is, actually. You just close your eyes and pretend you’re sleeping until you finally do.”

“Oh, my God,” Stiles groaned. “You’re fucking impossible.” He turned over to face the wall once again, annoyed beyond measure with Derek’s trivialization of his insomnia, his anxiety, his outright _fear_ of what he and his friends would be facing the following night. His fear of what lay in store for him once his time was up. He rucked the blankets high enough over his shoulder to cover half his face. The muffled quiet was much closer to complete silence, but it did little to stop his racing thoughts. Stiles consciously breathed deeply through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth. It was always hardest to keep it together when the world fell still enough for the cracks to show.

But then the bed dipped.

Stiles whipped onto his back and fisted Derek’s shirt with one hand, the other coming up as a balled fist ready to strike—an automatic response from his years of training and hunting, a subconscious outlet for his pent-up nervous energies.

Derek, for his part, froze. If he was startled by the reaction, Stiles couldn’t tell.

Stiles quickly released him. “Jesus, Derek, warn a guy, would ya?” But he instinctively scooted back across the mattress, closer to the wall. The space between them was meager, but it was the best he could offer. The bed was only so big.

Derek had abandoned his leather jacket—Stiles noticed it draped over the back of his desk chair. And the hound’s boots were set neatly near the closet, darker shapes against dark shadow. Slowly, as if engaging a spooked animal, Derek eased onto the mattress. “Is this alright?”

“Is what alright?” Stiles licked his lips and flicked his eyes between Derek’s face and how he stretched so languidly on the bed. The hound was caught somewhere between settling and bolting, clearly waiting on an answer, but all Stiles wanted to do was haul him on top of him.

“This,” Derek answered, leaning a little closer. “Just because you need it doesn’t mean you want it. So, is this alright?”

“I don’t—” Stiles started, aghast, then said, “Lying down with me?” He smirked nervously and forced a chuckle. “Dude, if you wanted to—”

Derek kissed him. It was quick, firm but tender, and completely consuming. Enough to get Stiles’ shoulders to sag, to bleed some of the tension from his muscles, Stiles whined softly when Derek pulled away.

“You’re wasting moonlight,” the hound scolded, his lips mere breaths from Stiles’. “Lie down. Get comfortable.”

“Derek,” Stiles started, and it pitched like a plea. He didn’t want to fight. He really didn’t. He’d rather kiss the hound until the sun rose than sleep, use every moment he had left to live doing anything but sleeping, but Derek didn’t _understand_. “You don’t get it. I _can’t_ —I don’t—”

Derek shushed him, actually shushed him. “I know,” he said, cupping Stiles’ cheek briefly. “I get it. I do.”

Then the dam broke, because it’s in darkness that secrets dwell.

“But Peter—” Stiles stopped abruptly when Derek tensed, then tried again. “Peter said that I, uh, I wouldn’t even remember my own name once I was on the rack.” He swallowed thickly, twisting trembling fingers into Derek’s shirt. “Is that true?”

“If you’re lucky,” Derek said. Stiles didn’t know if he was waiting for him to continue or hoping for him to stop.

Stiles continued, “I mean, one of the stipulations was that I work for Peter, and Peter said you were one of his best, so I guess that means we’ll be working together, maybe? And I was sorta hoping you could, you know, tell me a bit about it. What I’m getting into. What it’s like.”

“Everyone knows what Hell is, Stiles,” Derek answered, but the severity in his voice eased just a fraction. “You did research before you summoned Peter. I’m sure you know.”

Derek wasn’t wrong.

Deconstruction of personhood in the most painful way possible.

What would it take for Stiles to forget who he was, for him to forget his dad, Scott, Allison and Lydia? What could Peter possibly do to him to make him forget _love_ and _family_?

Instead of pondering further, Stiles asked, “Did Peter give you the name Derek?”

“No.”

“Who did?” Stiles asked.

“My mother.”

“Is she—?”

“No,” though Derek seemed amused by the question.

“My mother named me after my father’s father,” Stiles said. “Thought it was good to keep the culture close. My dad’s first name is Polish, too, but he goes by John to save people the trouble.” He waited a beat, then forced a laugh, hollow, despite his efforts. “And the embarrassment.”

“You have a bit more than seven months,” Derek said. “You should focus on your mission tomorrow night. I can’t save you if you scare yourself to death with thoughts of Hell.”

“That’s a thing?” Stiles asked skeptically.

Derek shrugged. “When a deal is up and I go to collect, the person usually dies of fright before I can even touch them. Makes my job easier, not having to rip it out of them.”

“Will it hurt?” Stiles asked. His fear bubbled through the cracks in his demeanor, and he tried to tramp them down. He watched the beating pulse in Derek’s neck. “When you take me. Will it hurt?”

His shoulders sagged with a sigh, but Derek gave a slow nod. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It will.”

“Can you make it quick, then, when the time comes?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

Unconvinced, Stiles tried to remain skeptical, stoic, _unmoved_ , but his faux indifference slipped further and further away with every gentle stroke of Derek’s thumb beneath his eye. Finally, after some undetermined amount of time where Stiles pouted and Derek’s eyebrows rose imploringly, Stiles sighed in defeat. He grabbed Derek by the wrist and pressed a quick kiss to his palm before pulling away and settling under the blankets.

A sudden wash of embarrassment flooded him when the gravity of his impulsively fond gesture finally hit. Stiles resolutely stared at Derek’s chest while the hound scooted further down the bed and tucked his feet beneath what little of the blankets Stiles’ hadn’t cocooned around himself. Derek didn’t mention it, and Stiles was grateful. So when Derek manhandled him, shoving his arm beneath the pillows so Stiles was cradled more against Derek’s bicep and chest than the bed, Stiles didn’t argue. When Derek shimmied a little closer to pull Stiles flush against him, Stiles went with it, swallowing thickly when Derek hooked his chin over the top of his head. He wrapped their legs together, tangling them, comfortably weighing Stiles down.

“Good?” Derek asked, his breath tickling where it ruffled Stiles’ hair. He draped a heavy arm across Stiles’ waist and stroked his fingertips, warm warm so very warm, along the dip of Stiles’ lower back. Steady. Along the lumbar discs he’d repaired. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Stiles hummed, eyelids suddenly impossibly drooping as his mind blanked. He breathed deep, and his limbs went heavy. He tucked his arm between their chests. With Derek’s hand rubbing his back and Derek’s heart beating beneath his loose fist, Stiles slept.

 

###

 

The crack of thunder was deafening, and lingering sparks of electricity in the air left their radios buzzing uselessly in their ears. Stiles pulled it out and let it hang over his shoulder, then squinted through the whipping wind and rain at Chris, Allison, and Scott.

“We should turn back,” he shouted. “We can’t get anything done in this storm.”

The clouds had visibly rolled in, like something out of a terrible movie, and just as ominous. Weather reports didn’t have answers for its origins, but the community at large was warmed to stay inside, away from windows. Half the city had gone dark with the first lightning strike, and it took less than a heartbeat for the torrential downpour to soak through their clothes. Stiles’ shoes sunk into the dirt where he stood, his grip on his weapon slick with rain.

“It’s just a storm,” Chris said. “And we’ve waited too long.”

“We could reset the traps, adjust the mission,” Allison argued, her higher voice piercing through the raging weather easily. She brushed her soaked hair from her face. “We can’t operate in this.”

“We also can’t let more people to die,” Chris answered, the accusation obvious. When Allison stared at him with abject horror, he added, “No one will blame you if you and Stiles want to turn back, but the Sheriff and I are going to go forward with the plan. Scott, if you could stay, it’ll better our odds.”

“I’m not leaving you out here!” Allison shouted. “I just think this is suicide!”

“It’s just a storm, Ally. We’ve hunted in storms before,” Scott said, his smile weak in its optimism.

“This isn’t just a storm,” Stiles snapped. “It’s the fucking Nemeton. Storms like this—” He flinched when another loud crack of thunder shook the ground. Humming magic in the air crawled under his skin like so many spiders. He wiped his face and licked his lips, uncertain if the hint of salt was from tears he didn’t feel or nervous sweat. “Storms like this don’t just _happen_.”

Nevermind how they knew so little about their query. They didn’t know where or how it hunted. They didn’t know what it ate. They didn’t know how it denned. They didn’t even know what it looked like—if it was more like a snake or a lizard—if it behaved like a reptile at all. They were so so ignorant, and now they were _blind_.

They were going to die.

“Stiles,” Chris said, his voice low and stern, even over the rain. “It doesn’t matter. We have to do this.” He waited a beat, and when Stiles didn’t argue, he pointed to him and Scott. “Boys, take point, just like we planned. Allison and I will fan out, and we’ll meet up with the Sheriff a few miles in. Scott, howl if anything comes up.”

Between one flash of lightening the next, the Argents disappeared.

Scott, confident in his supernatural speed and strength, lead the way into the dark forest, and Stiles didn’t linger. He followed what he could see of Scott’s outline—the instinct to disappear and hunt was one Scott tended to fall subject to whenever they broke into teams—and tried to keep pace. The wolf let Scott keep people safe. In this case, it would let him keep Stiles safe.

A swirl of shadows just at Stiles’ four o’ clock unveiled Derek’s ethereal form. The sense of Derek’s presence sharpened whenever he physically appeared in Stiles’ vicinity—a sensation Stiles quickly learned to identify—so he didn’t have to turn to know the hound was there.

“How bad is it?” he asked. He didn’t think Scott could hear him over the rain, but Stiles kept his voice low anyway.

“It’s bad,” Derek answered.  “You’ll be more successful if you can get alone. The protection I offer is better than his, but I’m limited in what I can do with witnesses.”

“Are you?” Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Derek said. “But it’s better for you if no one sees me work.”

Stiles huffed a laugh, then loped into a quick jog as Scott shifted and sped up through the woods. The rain and lightning made it hard to keep track of Scott’s faster movements, and the wolf wanted to bleed into the night as much as it wanted a successful hunt. But Stiles could see the glint of Scott’s claws, the shadow of his pointed ears.

“It’ll be hard to ditch him. Werewolf, you know?” Stiles panted under his breath.

“He’s young and inexperienced,” Derek said, unimpressed. “The storm is overloading his senses—rain, magic—he can’t parse your scent or sounds from everything else.”

“Yeah, so he’s hyper-alert.” As if on cue, Scott checked on Stiles with a glance over his shoulder, eyes glowing amber. “He’ll notice me gone.”

“I don’t care that he knows you’re gone. I care that he won’t be able to find you.”

“Trying to get me alone?” Stiles teased.

“Trying to keep you safe,” Derek answered.

Stiles stopped short and stared at Derek, who, now that he took the moment to notice, was completely unaffected by the weather. His hair was styled as perfectly as always, his stubble just so, and not a drop of water marred his figure—as if he existed beyond the physical realm of meteorological misery. Maybe he did. What swayed Stiles, however, was the intensity in Derek’s stare, the barely lidded urgency in the tilt of his brows and the pull of his frown.

Derek _needed_ Stiles to get away from Scott.

With a sigh, Stiles resumed his jog and said, “Distract him, and I’ll slip away.”

Derek nodded faintly before shadows surged up from the ground and swallowed him. When he reemerged, he was the terrifying wolf Stiles had first met at the crossroads, loping at Stiles’ side. The tendrils of his umbra seemed larger, heavier, doubling Derek’s perceived size. He looked up at Stiles for a few heartbeats with his scarlet gaze, as if double-checking Stiles’ decision.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” Stiles muttered, wiggling his fingertips through the wisps. “Don’t hurt Scott, okay? Please.”

With an indignant snort, Derek darted away from Stiles, his paws silent as he ghosted through the storming woods. Stiles slowed to a halt and watched Derek pounce on Scott from behind. The hound let out a bone-chilling roar-bark as they tumbled into the mud, and Scott roared in response. But Derek was too quick for Scott. Even as the werewolf swiped at his assailant with precise razor claws, they faded through Derek’s body just as the nurse had in the Sheriff’s hospital room.

Stiles watched them tussle for only a moment more—Derek seemed to leap and bound and shove Scott around almost _playfully_ —before he dashed into the darkness between lightning flashes.

Stiles ran. He knew the preserve and he knew the plan and he’d memorized the charts that marked their intended movements. He ran between the barriers. He dodged their set traps. He slipped through the paths of their patrols. The downpour erased his footprints as soon as he made them despite the soft earth, and the rain made the branches he charged through supple against his applied force. Derek was right—they wouldn’t be able to find him.

When Scott finally let loose his warning howl, the one Chris told him to make if anything went wrong, Stiles hardly heard it over the thunder.

Derek appeared with the next lightning flash.

“Now what?” Stiles asked, squinting through the wind.

“Now you hunt,” Derek answered with a shrug. “Do you know where you are?”

Stiles looked around and laughed, mirthless. “Not really, no. I know I’m out of our mission range, but that’s about it.”

“You’re not far from where a few of the attacks happened.”

Stiles shook his head. “No. We charted all of that. All of the attack sites were in the mission range.”

“Not all of the attacks were reported.”

His anxiety crested into full-blown panic with Derek’s words. A shrill whine eked from Stiles’ throat before he could stop it, and he crouched to hug his knees, shivering in the rain.

Again, they didn’t have all the information.

Again, their plan went to shit.

Again, they were in unfathomable danger.

Again. Again. Again.

When would it stop?

Stiles yelped when Derek grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie and hauled him to his feet. “You don’t have time for this,” the hound said. “And you certainly don’t have reason. You know I can keep you alive, Stiles. Just hunt the damn creature.”

“What about the others?” Stiles snapped, his voice cracking. “What about Scott and Allison and Chris? I’m so fucking far away from them now, I couldn’t help them even if I wanted to! I can’t lead anything away! _I trusted you_ and now I can’t protect them!”

“They’re not in direct danger! Not from your prey, anyway,” Derek snarled.

“How do you know?”

Derek gestured around them: the wind, the rain, the thunder and lightning. “The damn storm is more of a threat to them than the basilisks!”

Stiles stared at Derek, eyes narrow with accusation. “Wait a second. You just said basilisks. As in more than one.”

Derek’s firm jaw tightened as he dropped his gaze.

“There’s more than one basilisk. And you knew it. You knew it all along.”

Derek remained silent.

“Well, what the hell else do you know?!” Stiles shoved him hard in the chest, satisfied when the hound stumbled back a step. “Huh? What the hell else have you been keeping from me?!”

“Now’s not the time, Stiles,” Derek ground out.

Scoffing, Stiles answered, “I think now is the perfect fucking time. In fact, I couldn’t think of a _better_ time for you to—”

Derek suddenly grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing Stiles to stumble and choke on his words, and threw him aside. From where he landed in the mud, Stiles turned to tear Derek a new one just in time to see the hound snatch a bone-white creature out of the air with his clawed fist. The creature, something that looked more like a salamander than either a snake or a lizard, let out a piercing shriek. The sound echoed what felt like a thousand fold, bouncing off every boulder and tree in the vicinity to grow louder. It fell silent when Derek crushed it.

“Was that…?”

“Yes,” Derek said.

“It’s small,” Stiles remarked.

“It’s young,” the hound responded. He tossed away the carcass. “Get up.” And he yanked Stiles to obedience. “You can’t be on the ground.”

“Huh?”

“It just called for mommy.”

“What?! And you just—just _let it_?!”

A low rumble rattled the ground beneath Stiles’ feet, distinct from the thunder, distinct from the wind, and softened at the edge into a vicious hiss. It reminded Stiles of the mating call of an alligator, the rattle of a viper, and screamed in Stiles’ core: DANGER. He took a few tentative steps backward, instinctively, and rested his hand on the firearm at his hip.

The basilisk, like its offspring, was bone-white and ethereal in the stormy darkness of the Nemeton’s squall, its eyes a ruddy violet shade that reminded Stiles of ink wells. Its body was set wide like an alligator, but its legs were longer; it stood taller, like a monitor lizard. Smooth, snake-like scales left it unaffected by the rain, and fleshy whiskers trembled with its warning sounds. The way its tail twitched and flicked like cat’s, Stiles imagined the creature more agile than either an alligator or a monitor lizard, dropping his chances of escape to relatively nonexistent. Despite all things, Stiles couldn’t help but think _dragon_.

“Had to lure it out somehow,” Derek huffed.

Stiles nodded, still staring at the basilisk.

“You should probably run now,” the hound said.

Stiles nodded again, then moved to do so. The moment his back was turned, he heard the creature surge forward, its claws and tail splashing in the muddy rain water in its viper-like strike. But Derek growled, and Stiles managed to take two strides before the creature’s bulk collided with Derek’s. Its rumble-hiss pitched, and Derek roared. Thunder boomed and drowned them both out, but above it all, as Stiles ran, his heartbeat was the loudest.

The darkness, sudden flashes of light, the rain and the wind—it was impossible for Stiles to tell where he was going or how far he’d run. With exhaustion as his only measure, Stiles pushed himself harder and harder, muscles achy and strained to offset slippery, soft mud, uneven ground, and fallen debris.

Derek would find him when the basilisk was dead.

Derek would keep him safe.

Stiles leapt over a broken tree stump and easily cleared it, but when he landed on the opposite side, the ground suddenly collapsed beneath him. Weightless for a heart-stopping moment, he dropped like a stone, everything too fast for him to compensate. He hit bottom hard and something in his arm snapped, loud and shocky.

Stunned, Stiles lay in the mud, rain drenching him from the hole he’d made in the ceiling of…wherever he was, and breathed. Aware enough to count, he tried to keep his heartrate from spiking any higher. The beginnings of shock pricked along the back of his neck and stuttered his breath, but if it overcame him, he’d be useless and vulnerable. Cradling his injured arm to his chest, he rolled onto his back to let the rain pummel his face. A few more breaths, a few more heartbeats, and Stiles heaved himself upright.

When he saw his ankle, he wanted to throw up.

So focused on the snapped bone in his arm or wrist or shoulder—his whole right side hurt—he hadn’t even realized the tender flesh above his foot was flayed open and bleeding. The jagged rock beside his leg must have been what he’d hit. Even with the downpour, his blood hadn’t quite washed away.

“Fuck.” Stiles coughed, and cringed when it rattled his injuries. Then he blinked through the rain and the burn of tears and—

Lightning flashed.

A bone-white reptile slithered out from the shadows, glowing with a flash of lightning.

A basilisk youngling.

“Fuck!”

The rain and the mud—he there was no way he could tell—he was cold and wet and how could he have known the prickling stabs of sensation weren’t just frazzled nerves?

Lightning flashed.

Two graying corpses—a man and a woman—stared blankly, slack jawed, from the shadows. The unaccounted victims. And beneath him: eggshells. Not just mud—embryos, yolk, placenta sacks, and blood. Hatchlings.

He’d fallen right into the goddamn nest.

Stiles tried to scramble back, but his leg was useless and his arm was dead, broken weight. He only managed to flail and dig himself a little deeper in the soft earth, traction a pipe dream. “Fuck!”

The youngling skittered closer.

“No! No no no!” He tried to kick out his injured leg to scare the creature away. It didn’t work. He reached for his weapon, but his hand was shaking too much, and the basilisk was too small, and he was more likely to shoot himself than his target.

“No no, please, no.”

Stiles wouldn’t have known the moment he was bitten if he didn’t see it. The sting sunk in quickly; prickling warmth soaked into and melted the joint of his ankle, then traveled down into his toes. He threw himself onto his uninjured side and scrambled for drier ground, dragging himself away from the carnage of his fall. He slipped and slopped through the slime of broken basilisk eggs, jagged shells cutting into his hands, completely ignorant to the effects those fluids could have on his skin, what would happen if ingested.

There was so much they didn’t know.

Stiles’ ankle locked up, his toes twisting in his shoe like the gnarled limbs of an old tree. It _hurt_. Tender and sensitive like whatever he’d broken in his arm, but heavy as a stone. With each dragging movement, he whimpered and yelped and heaved wet breaths that were too much like sobs.

Then another wash of prickling heat. Sudden. This time near his hip, where his shirt had rucked askew with his jerky movements. Before the youngling could escape, Stiles snarled and grabbed it, crushing it in a fit of frustration and anger.

“Fuck you!” he spat, throwing the body aside.

When he resumed his weakened army-crawl, his hip crunched and grinded. The pain was blinding, but he knew staying on the ground meant never getting up again. So Stiles choked on a cry, and shoved his good leg beneath him. Pushing with his uninjured arm, he lurched up, and hobbled off-balance until, hunched like an old man, he slammed into the wall of the nest.

The ceiling wasn’t high enough for Stiles to stand upright, but the next flash of lightning showed the nest wasn’t just a burrow or hole in the ground. It was a tunnel. And there was a path _away_ from the broken eggs and venomous hatchlings and dead people, dark and ominous though it may have been.

“Stiles!” Where the hound touched his shoulder burned, and Stiles, whining, flinched.

“Derek!” he breathed. “Derek, I fucked up. I’m so fucked, Derek. I’m—”

“You’re bitten,” Derek said, his voice stoic, even.

“I—yeah,” Stiles panted. “Yeah.” He didn’t want to admit how much it hurt. He didn’t want to acknowledge how the ground lurched beneath his feet, how he couldn’t tell the difference between fading vision and general darkness. He didn’t want to think about how long it would take for the venom to reach his lungs and stop them from expanding, or his heart and stop it from beating. He didn’t want to think about how painful it would be to die that way. So he settled for grunting and groaning, gritting his teeth, while Derek, unceremoniously and roughly, dug through his small supply bag.

“This tunnel goes for miles,” Derek said, fishing out the flashlight. He shoved it in Stiles’ good hand, taking care to turn it on and guide Stiles’ aching fingers around it. “Just go straight. No turns, no bends. Just go and keep moving. I’ll handle the nest.”

“Derek,” Stiles said, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He swallowed and tried again. “Derek, I can’t. My leg, it—I can’t—I can hardly—”

“You have to,” Derek insisted.

“Derek, please,” Stiles begged.

Derek’s hot hot hands cupped Stiles’ face—he didn’t know his jaw was chattering until Derek stilled it—and leaned in close, all but breathing his words against Stiles’ forehead. “The hatchlings are starting to swarm around your feet. They’re attracted to your body heat and there are hundreds of them. A few more bites and the venom will kill you—I won’t be able to save you. Do you understand?”

Stiles grimaced and shuddered with his whole body, but nodded.

“You can’t stay here,” the hound said, ducking to meet Stiles’ watery gaze. His thumbs stroked his cheeks, wiping away tears and rain drops alike. “You have to go.”

“I ca—”

“You can,” Derek pressed. “You have to.”

Stiles shut his eyes and took a trembling breath, exhaling wetly. “I’m not that strong,” he whispered.

“You’re more than your body,” the hound reminded him. Then he gave him an encouraging shove that was at complete odds with his barked command: “Go!”

One foot in front of the other. That’s what Stiles told himself. One foot in front of the other, with his good hand clutching the flashlight so hard the beam trembled, with his good arm braced against the wall of the earthen tunnel, bearing his weight on one exhausted leg. Momentum was a frenemy: awesome when he managed to keep his balance and a hell of a bitch if he teetered even a little. But he managed. One foot in front of the other.

Light suddenly flooded the tunnel, dwarfing his flashlight, and a roaring whoosh of hot air nearly knocked him over. Terrified, he spun around hard enough to slip, fall, painfully hitting his head.

The last thing he saw was the small shadow of Derek’s silhouette against a wall of flame.

 

###

 

Pain. Rustling. Heavy breathing.

Stiles blinked, bleary, and awoke cradled against a warm chest with the support of a pair of strong arms. He smelled leather and smoke and _Derek_ , but it was dark and he hurt all over, so he just closed his eyes again.

“—iles?”

He blinked, eyes fluttering in response to the patting of his cheeks. He coughed weakly, and squinted through the gloom at Derek’s handsome, if worried, face.

“Stiles?” the hound said again.

Stiles hummed.

“I need you awake for this part.”

“…what part?” He groaned and tried to sit up, and while Derek frowned in disapproval, he didn’t stop Stiles. Instead, the hound shifted and helped support his weight, caught him when sparks of pain skittered through his body and made him go limp. “What’s wrong with me?” Stiles managed to ask. His voice only wavered a bit, only sounded a little croaky.

“So much more than I could list,” Derek answered.

Smirking, Stiles crowed, “Oh ho! The hellhound’s got jokes. Clever clever.” He tried to move again, but Derek steadied him to stillness this time. Stiles leaned against a wall with the hound’s help, and looked around while steadying his breath.

He sat on wooden floorboards, old and warped and a little charred, and the wall he leaned against felt very much the same. It seemed almost like the inside of a house, but it could just as easily have been an abandoned shack somewhere. It was too dark to tell. The roof was intact enough to protect them from the rain, and the walls sturdy enough to keep the wind out, but the structure groaned with each blow of the Nemeton’s fury. They were safe and out of the elements, or so it seemed. For now.

“I’m trying to heal you,” Derek growled, as if Stiles was somehow hindering the process.

“There’s a hidden ‘but,’ isn’t there?”

Derek’s frown deepened, shame coloring the edges of it, and nodded.

“Am I paralyzed and bleeding out again?” Stiles teased.

“No,” the hound answered. “But the venom’s done more damage than I anticipated.”

“What do you mean?”

“The calcification. It’s bad. A few of your joints have fused together.”

“But I’m not dying?”

Derek shook his head. “I was able to burn the venom out before it got to your vitals.”

“Thank God for small miracles.” When Derek snorted, Stiles laughed. “Okay, maybe God had nothing to do with it. It’s just a phrase! Jeez!”

Then Derek watched him, suddenly serious, seafoam eyes skating across Stiles’ features—his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth—and the hound’s expression grew grim. Derek rose to his knees and unbuckled his belt, sliding the leather free with deft fingers.

“Moving a little fast, aren’t we?” Stiles drawled, smirking. He pushed his wet hair back with his good hand. “I’m all helpless and injured and in no way capable of really appreciating the idea of you taking your belt off. Besides, we only kissed, like, a week ago.” Derek didn’t respond to the jest, and Stiles’ humor was replaced with budding panic. “Derek? What are you doing?”

“Bite this,” he said, extending the thick band to Stiles.

Grimacing, Stiles said, “What? Why??”

“Just do as you’re told, Stiles,” Derek snapped. “For once in your goddamn life.”

“Woah, Derek.” Stiles pushed against the wall with his two good limbs, trying for distance from Derek’s belt in his face. “What the hell, man. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t absorb pain anymore, and I can’t heal you without hurting you first,” Derek ground out. It seemed hard to say, like he was mad at Stiles for making him say it. “So bite the damn belt and let me do my job.”

Blinking owlishly, realization dawned on him, sluggish and fuzzy, but no less horrifying. “You have to break my bones before you can reset and heal them,” Stiles murmured.

He wanted to puke when Derek nodded.

“Bite the belt,” the hound sighed, averting his gaze.

But Stiles’ impulses had other ideas.

“Kiss me first,” he begged, _bargained_. Derek looked at him a little incredulously, brows furrowed in comical confusion, but Stiles nervously licked his lips and continued. His near-panic easily sent words and justifications tumbling forth. “Please. It was an amazing kiss last time, but if you’re about to break my freakin’ bones, I probably won’t want to kiss you for a while after that. And I only have a few months left—like, seven-ish, or something—and I’d really rather not waste the opportunity, ya know? For a kiss from you. With you. To kiss you. If you’re willing, of course. If you wouldn’t mind kissing me again, I’d like it. Like, a lot, actually.”

Then, Stiles waited. He waited for his nerves to fade, waited for his sarcasm to kick in and mask his desperation with a joke, waited for Derek to get to the bone-breaking business already as if he hadn’t spoken at all. He waited for his heart to stop thudding so heavily in his chest, waited for the kaleidoscopic colors of Derek’s eyes to become boring, waited for the fullness of Derek’s mouth to become somehow less appealing. Stiles waited, and would probably keep waiting, because none of those things he waited for happened.

Instead, Derek’s lips quirked like the beginnings of a smile, and seafoam faded into a darker shade of amusement. He leaned forward, scooting his knees to press lightly against Stiles’ hip, and hovered over him with a wistful sort of want sparking beneath his heated gaze. He braced his arm against the wall, above Stiles’ head, and the leather of the belt hung ominously beside Stiles’ face, but his other hand caught Stiles by the jaw and gently tilted his face.

Just before their lips met, Stiles sighed something like relief.

Derek’s kiss turned into the press of a grin for a brief moment before the hound took a breath and pushed for more. It felt like a last hoorah and tasted like just barely catching a missed opportunity—Stiles’ words coloring how Derek suckled his bottom lip and pressed his tongue into his mouth. Maybe Derek thought Stiles would never kiss him again. Maybe Derek wanted to make it count. Maybe Derek didn’t care either way. But the hound made soft little growls, and his fingertips curled possessively where they held Stiles’ face, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to do much more than wrap a shaking hand around Derek’s wrist and _hold on_.

Stiles staccatoed short gasps and tiny whines, desperate attempts at breathing through the smell and taste and essence of Derek seeping into every part of him. He took what control of the kiss he could, pulling back just enough to nuzzle noses sweetly before surging forward and kissing Derek deeper, hungrier. He relished the slide of wet lips, hot compared to the rest of him, and how, if he just kept kissing Derek, maybe the shivers would stop. If he just kept kissing Derek, maybe everything would be alright.

“Derek,” Stiles pleaded when the hound pulled away. “Derek, please.” Because he knew what came next, and he wasn’t even a little bit ready. The mere thought of pain made his stomach twist, made him want to clutch Derek close and hide in the unending warmth of his leather jacket.

“I’m sorry you might not want to kiss me again after this,” the hound said. He sounded _genuinely remorseful_. When he kissed his cheek, his stubble scraped across Stiles’ already tingling lips, and Stiles hurt in a whole new way.

Stiles’ answering laugh was high and a touch hysterical, and he used his uninjured hand to card through the soft hair behind Derek’s ear. “You’re sorry? You’re _sorry_? You’re a goddamn hellhound, Derek. What the hell do you have to be sorry for?”

“Bite,” Derek said, holding the belt. His expression blanked as Stiles obediently wrapped his lips around the strap and sank his teeth into its supple leather. Not as soft as Derek’s jacket, but soft enough for his teeth to leave small tick marks in their wake, the shape of his bite a crescent of punctures right out of Shark Week.

“Derek…?” Stiles mumbled through the bit. He started shaking again when Derek untied his shoe and eased its sopping weight from his crippled foot. The hound was careful with how he handled Stiles’ mangled limb, and Stiles clung to the sensation of warm hands against his clammy flesh while Derek cuffed his jeans clear of the injury. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall, unable to watch. “What do you have to be sorry for?” he asked again. “Derek?” He didn’t know if he was understood through the belt in his mouth, or if his voice wasn’t quite working as it should.

“For hurting you,” Derek said. His confession was hushed, and Stiles nearly missed it. But he didn’t have time to consider its meaning because Derek was suddenly clamping down hard on his foot, and the resounding _crack_ of breaking bone echoed up through Stiles’ body in waves.

Stiles screamed, tearing his throat to shreds with the pitch and force and the ragged breathing in between. He tried to twist away, slumping from the wall and onto his uninjured side, pitifully trying to pull his ankle out of Derek’s grasp. Despite his efforts and helpless whimpering, he was held firm, still, unable to hurt himself further in his animalistic attempts at escape.

Derek was merciful in that he didn’t leave time to recover from the initial and overwhelming shock of shattered bone. The basilisk venom had fused every bone and joint in Stiles’ foot and ankle into a single, crippled mass, and Derek made sure to snap and pop apart each individual piece. The breaks jutted up through Stiles’ body the way lightning bolts continued to jut across the still-storming sky, and with every jab of awful sensation, Stiles wailed.

“Okay,” Derek suddenly soothed, and Stiles was vaguely aware of a warm hand running up and down his calf. “It’s okay. That part’s done.”

“Hurts,” Stiles croaked, and he didn’t even care that he was crying and sniveling. He scrubbed his face with his rain-wet hoodie sleeve and heaved gulping breaths into his uninjured arm.

“I know,” the hound said. He just kept rubbing Stiles’ leg, streaks of soft heat bleeding through the damp denim of his jeans. “We’re not finished, but I need you to breathe, okay? Just breathe, Stiles.” In careful increments, Derek wrapped one hand around Stiles’ foot and the other around his ankle, and applied gentle pressure. When Stiles whimpered, Derek reminded him to breathe again, so Stiles did.

“How much more?” Stiles asked, sniffling into the crook of his elbow.

“Your hip, still,” Derek answered, “but I’m healing your ankle and foot right now. So just breathe. Relax.”

He’d been paralyzed the last time Derek had healed him, numb from his navel to his toes, and only understood how Derek touched him because he’d watched it. But now, flooded with too much sensation and struggling to remain conscious through it, Stiles felt the burn of Derek’s magic—hot as Hell—carefully knit torn flesh and fuse broken bone. It burned, worse than the basilisk venom, worse than how Derek had snapped every bone in his foot, but it was a good burn. It settled into a churning comfort, like sitting into a too-hot bath a little too fast. He let Derek heal him, and Stiles breathed, shaky.

Stiles didn’t realize Derek finished until he set his leg down on the wooden floor. He looked up from where he’d hidden his face against his arm, and sniffled, watching Derek sit back on his haunches and _glare_ at Stiles’ pelvis. The hound man-handled Stiles into lying flat on his back, away from the wall, before Stiles could protest.

 _That_ was when he noticed how fucked his hip was, the joint locked and pushing awkward pressure on his lower back. He worried his lumbar discs would fracture under the force, just shatter along the lines of Derek’s healing, like the basilisk venom could undo demonic magics.

“What’s your favorite part of _Crush_?” Derek asked, breaking the quiet between them.

“ _Little Beast_ ,” Stiles answered automatically.

Derek corrected, “Part, not poem.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Um, probably _24_ of _You Are Jeff_. It’s super sad and, like, redemptive. It feels like closure.”

The hound hummed thoughtfully. “Can you recite it?”

“While you break my hip?” Stiles chuckled.

“It might help distract you,” Derek answered, but there was something unsaid woven through the remark. He unbuttoned Stiles’ fly, pulled down the zipper, and carefully shimmied the denim down and away from the jutting peak of Stiles’ deformed hip bone. Then he rucked up Stiles’ hoodie and shirt, exposing his already chilled skin to the cold, damp air.

Stiles wouldn’t—couldn’t—dissect it. His skin prickled and he shivered again and he could hardly bring himself to watch Derek’s expression. Instead, he cleared his sore, cracking throat and said, “ _You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you._ ” His cheeks flooded with heat, a rush of embarrassment he couldn’t trap down in their dire circumstance. He clicked his throat and continued, “ _And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired._ ”

Derek knelt beside his damaged hip and laced his hands together, palm against knuckles with interlocked fingers, like he was about to perform CPR compressions. “Breathe,” the hound murmured, and Stiles listened.

He only yelped when Derek violently shoved his weight into Stiles’ hip and crushed the bones, inhaled damp and trembling. It hurt, levels beyond excruciating, but he fought to remain conscious. Ashamed he couldn’t help how he cried, he said, “ _You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling…”_

Derek shifted down Stiles’ body and lifted his leg, forcing the broken hip to rotate in its shattered socket. A hitching sob broke Stiles’ composure, so Derek told him to breathe again. Slowly, so very slowly, Derek lifted Stiles’ leg until he could drape it over his shoulder at the knee, and if the hound’s jaw twitched every time Stiles whimpered, neither of them acknowledged it.

“ _You’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling…_ ” Derek prompted. He pushed up on Stiles’ leg, forced the joint to move, to grind its broken pieces together in a mockery of how it was supposed to work.

Stiles desperately twisted the fingers of his good hand into the cold, wet material of his hoodie and stared at the damaged, burned ceiling of their safe house. He tried not to think about the pain, tried to let it skate across his frazzled nerves in some shadow of numbness. He tried not to think about the meaning of the words he said, only that he said them in the right order. He was _reciting_ , not proclaiming or confessing. “ _…you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which—for which no words exist, and you feel your h-heart taking root in your body…_ ”

Soon, Derek lowered Stiles’ leg to the ground, whatever fragments he’d loosened enough for Stiles’ spine to settle straight and unencumbered. He moved back to Stiles’ side, right beside the hip, and placed both hands over the damaged area, side by side. A broad band of warmth branded his skin, and Stiles shuddered bodily when the healing began.

“You can sleep now, if you feel the pull,” Derek said, quiet.

Stiles hummed and nodded, already succumbing to the heavy drag.

“How does it end?” he asked, just before Stiles went under.

“ _Like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for_ ,” Stiles answered with a clumsy tongue.

“ _24_ of _You Are Jeff_ , I mean. How does it end?”

“That is the ending,” Stiles said, and a tired smile pulled the corner of his mouth. He didn’t stay awake long enough for Derek to respond.

 

###

 

Stiles woke for the third time since his basilisk encounter, and he was warm. Warm like a summer day. Warm like a nest of blankets in fall. Warm like safe.

He hadn’t awoken like that the last time he’d drifted off while Derek healed him.

When Stiles’ yawned, his jaw popped pleasantly, and when he stretched, languid like a cat, the only indication he’d ever been hurt was in his memory. But the gentle stroking of his hair, a sensation so relaxing he hadn’t even noticed it, stopped. He harrumphed petulantly and finally opened his eyes.

The shack where he’d passed out—the damaged walls and floorboards were recognizable, though the room wasn’t. On the opposite wall, the stones of an old fireplace survived the damage to the structure, solid and steadfast, and a fire crackled, bright and alive, in its frame. He would have remembered that, even overcome with pain as he’d been. He turned onto his back, away from the heat and light of the fire, and the leather jacket draped over his torso shifted. He subconsciously tugged it up to his chin and nestled deeper against it. And beneath his head…

Stiles smirked when he looked up and found Derek quirking an eyebrow at him. “Hey,” he rasped, his throat still sore from his screaming.

“Hey,” Derek answered. The hound’s thigh flexed beneath Stiles’ head. “Feeling better?”

After humming affirmatively, Stiles said, “Tired.”

“To be expected,” the hound answered.

“Cold,” Stiles added. He turned onto his side again, his back to the fireplace, and curled his knees to his chest. He huddled as much as he could beneath Derek’s jacket, but despite how warm it was, it was only so big.

Derek rubbed his shoulder and said, “Sit up,” which Stiles did reluctantly. The hound climbed to his feet and stretched before striding deeper into the stack—house? Yes, house, Stiles decided, because shacks didn’t have such elaborate, if delapitated, looking fireplaces. Derek returned with a small stack of neatly folded blankets sandwiched between his hands. “Here,” he said, wrapping one around Stiles’ shoulders, over his jacket. He draped another over Stiles’ bent knees. They smelled like smoke and mildew.

“Sounds like the storm’s died down,” Stiles remarked. No longer delirious with agony, he didn’t know what to do, how to behave. Derek had kissed him again and healed his wounds. Derek built him a fire and let Stiles use him as a pillow. Derek brought him blankets.

But Derek also withheld information about the number of basilisks in the area. Derek knew about the tunnel where the nest had been. Derek urged him away beyond any ability to protect his friends. Derek broke his bones and kept him awake during the process.

Stiles didn’t know what to do with Derek.

“It’s been quiet for a few hours, but morning’s still a little while off,” Derek said. “You’ll be safe here until then.”

Never one for subtlety, Stiles pursed his lips and glared at where his hands bunched the jacket and blanket close around his body. “Why didn’t you tell me about the number of basilisks?”

Derek stiffened beside him, and hesitated. From the corner of his eye, Stiles could just make out the barest tightening of the hound’s jaw. Then Derek sighed and said, “It wouldn’t have benefited you.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, vitriol burning the tip of his tongue and ready to be spat, but Derek continued before he could utter a sound. “You would have broadened your search area, which would have put your friends at an even greater risk of an unfortunate encounter.”

“So you let us go in blind,” Stiles sneered. “You let me—”

“I let you do what you always do,” Derek interrupted. “I let you martyr yourself to keep your friends safe.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, unimpressed, despite how it sounded and stung like an insult. He waited a beat before he said, “You knew about the tunnel.”

“It was obviously a tunnel.”

“You said it went for miles, straight. No bends or turns. How did you know that?”

“The same way I knew about the tsuchigumo neurotoxin,” the hound answered a little too readily. “It’s part of your terms and conditions.” It sounded like a party line, something rehearsed to placate and avoid criticism.

Fuck that.

“What unfortunate accidents were avoided through your demonically imparted omniscience?” Stiles snapped. “What, pray tell, was the benefit of knowing whether the tunnel went straight or not, or whether it went for miles?” When Derek didn’t offer an explanation right away, he barreled on, “I was already bitten and crippled. What more could have happened outside of me collapsing, which I did, by the way, and passing out? And how was _that_ the unfortunate accident? The getting bitten seems more of an accident! The falling into the nest was more unfortunate!” Stiles sighed. “What else aren’t you telling me, Derek? What other lies have you told me?”

“I haven’t lied to you, Stiles,” Derek said.

“You’re a _demon_! You’re the very definition of lies! Why should I trust you?”

“Why _shouldn’t_ you trust me?” the hound hissed.

Stiles shook his head and scoffed. “You’re un-fucking-believable, Derek. I just…” He didn’t finish the thought, but he stiffly stood up and, keeping the blanket securely around his shoulders, stalked out of the room.

The house was large, bigger than Stiles anticipated from his brief assessment, but it was easy enough to find the front door. Or rather, what had once been the front door. It wasn’t too far from where the crumbling staircase wound towards a nonexistent second floor. The walls and ceiling were stable in only a few places, while whole pieces of the house were missing or collapsed in others. When he stomped out onto the front porch, the charred wooden steps led to a well-worn path through the woods, visible even in the limited moonlight.

And Stiles instantly knew where he was.

It wasn’t just some shack in the woods. It wasn’t just a random decomposing house.

It was the Hale house.

“Holy shit.”

Stiles’ legs went weak, but he caught himself on what remained of the railing before he could stumble down the steps. His white-knuckled grip anchored him as he carefully sat down and…and…

He couldn’t recall _why_ the Hale boy had been sitting in the Sheriff’s station that day back when he was twelve and obnoxious and nosy. All Stiles could remember was how incredibly sad he’d been, how broken he looked. Whatever had brought him and his family to Stiles’ dad was something he couldn’t go back from and, well, it reminded Stiles too much of how his dad looked right after his mom died. The boy emanated the sort of loss that tilted his whole world on its axis.

Later, Stiles would hear whispers of ‘older woman’ and ‘so young’ and ‘abuse.’

He remembered shuffling up to the boy—guy, really, as he was a few years older than Stiles at the time—and asking what was wrong, asking if he could help. The boy only offered some shadow of a smile, still somehow stunning in its own right, and shook his head. Stiles asked about the book—“Is it any good? It looks sad,”—and the boy handed it to him without hesitation.

“It is sad,” the boy had said. “But it’s also good. A good sort of sad. You might like it. You know, when you’re older.”

“Is your sad the good sort of sad?”

“No,” the boy had answered. “It’s not.”

“I’ll keep you company,” Stiles had declared, plopping into the chair beside the boy. “Until your mom and dad come back. You shouldn’t be alone when you’re sad.”

A few weeks later, the boy—Derek Hale—was dead, and Stiles would never be able to return his book to him.

The investigation ruled out arson. The file blamed faulty wiring.     

No one survived.

But even so young, Stiles couldn’t leave well enough alone. He couldn’t forget the boy with the sad eyes and beautiful poetry.

So when he missed his mom the most, when his dad was at his most violent and drunk, when Loss was a big, universal and insurmountable beast, Stiles ran down the beaten paths of the preserve to the charred remains of the home of a boy he hardly knew but couldn’t forget. He sat on the sooty steps and read _Crush_ and wondered if Derek Hale had ever sat on the steps before they were sooty and read _Crush_. With age came more questions. He’d wonder if Derek Hale ever identified with the narrator of the poems the same way Stiles slowly came to as he grew older. Stiles wondered if he and Derek Hale could have ever been friends.

The files Stiles illegally rifled through detailed where the bodies were found. Sometimes Stiles would stand or sit in the place Derek Hale died and apologize for having missed him. He didn’t know why he was sorry for not having an opportunity to know Derek Hale—it seemed so stupid when Stiles actually sat down and thought about it—but it was a feeling and feelings weren’t rational, and _Crush_ was full of feelings that filled Stiles’ chest to aching with longing for things he couldn’t quantify or name.

Derek Hale died young and alone and in pain, and it made Stiles so fucking _angry_.

Jesus, it was stupid.

Stiles hadn’t been to the Hale house in a while—maybe a year—but it felt as much like home to him as his own house did. And to be there again…

“You should come back to the fire,” Derek said. His sudden presence startled Stiles, and in his startle, Stiles slammed his hand into the railing beside him.

“Why?” Stiles sneered, rubbing the blossoming bruise on his knuckles. “In a few months, I’ll have fire for all eternity.” He rubbed and rubbed until his hand was tender to the touch. He’d been so afraid of how it would hurt for his bones to break, but worsening the bruise of his hand was somehow soothing. He was a mess, through and through.

Derek sighed. “You’re upset.” He pressed his fingertips against his solar plexus and frowned, pained. “You’re…Stiles, just come back inside.”

“Leave me alone,” Stiles snarled.

“You shouldn’t be alone when you’re upset.”

Stiles hesitated for a heartbeat before saying, “Sad.”

“What?”

“It’s, ‘you shouldn’t be alone when you’re sad,’” Stiles clarified. He didn’t look at Derek while he waited, keeping his back to the hellhound and his gaze towards the preserve. Dark night slowly gave way to graying dawn. In the inverse twilight of a new day, and Stiles waited.

Of course Derek didn’t say anything.

“How did you know about the blankets, Derek?”

“Hmm?”

“The blankets, Derek,” Stiles pressed, annoyed. “How did you know where the blankets were? How did you know the house even had blankets, that blankets had even survived the fire? How did you know this place existed?” He scrubbed his face, then pushed his hair back.

The blankets didn’t fit the contract. Neither did the tunnel or Derek even knowing about the house. But he’d been mortal once, his mother named him, and Derek had said he couldn’t take Stiles’ pain anymore, like maybe once upon a time, he could have.

And then…and then…

Stiles shot to his feet and rounded on the hellhound, angry and hurt and so very fucking confused. “People died here, Derek,” he hissed. “Did you know you were bringing me someplace haunted? Because I know you carried me here. I woke up in your arms, then passed right back out.” He paused, licked his lips and watched Derek’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue, but the hound gave little else away. “So, did you know? That people died here?”

Derek spoke in careful measurement when he said, “This house isn’t haunted.”

“Why? Because spirits don’t exist?”

“Because there aren’t any spirits left to haunt this place,” he answered sadly.

Stiles reeled in silence for a few sluggish heartbeats before he swallowed and said, “The boy,” pointing towards the house. “The one who gave me _Crush_. His name was Derek Hale. He lived here. He died here. His family, too. They burned alive.”

But Derek knew that. Of course he fucking did. And Stiles knew it too, had probably known it all along, but had just been too dense, too wrapped up in his own anguish and drama and, fuck, _kissing Derek_ to realize it.

Derek stood in the doorway of the house, his stance square, unwavering, though he looked so much softer, vulnerable even, sans the armor his leather jacket provided. His seafoam eyes were open wounds as he withstood Stiles’ interrogation, Stiles’ rage, but he didn’t try to defend himself. Instead, he all but begged Stiles to stop with the tilt of his eyebrows, the way his mouth hung just a little bit open, the way his jaw was pinched just a little bit in pain. “Why are you doing this?” Derek whispered.

“How did you know about the blankets, Derek?” Stiles asked again, louder, intentionally drowning out Derek’s plea. He pointedly ignored how his voice broke like a wave on a shore, and he stubbornly blinked through the sudden burn of tears.

“It had been my turn to fold the laundry,” Derek answered. “I didn’t want to carry them upstairs knowing my sister would just drag them all back down to the couch, so I stashed them in the linen closet.”

Stiles clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle the _sound_ clawing to escape his throat—a scream, a sob, a wail, he didn’t know what—and choked down the bitter betrayal scalding his cheeks as tears.

“Stiles,” Derek tried. He took a tentative step towards him, but Stiles recoiled until he stumbled backward down the stairs and stood in rain-soft dirt. “Stiles, it’s not—”

But it was.

His hellhound was Derek Hale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Stiles quotes section 24 of "You Are Jeff" from _Crush_ by Richard Siken. It's a pretty popular part--you've probably seen variations of it on OTP edits and such. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles starts burning bridges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but I haven't abandoned this fic. I hope you haven't, either. :)

Stiles decided nothing Derek said could be believed.

It was such a harsh truth, such an _obvious_ truth, he was ashamed to meet his own gaze in the mirror. He should have known. He’d been so fucking naïve. Derek was a hellhound, a demon. If his research was to be trusted—which, in Stiles’ opinion, it was; totally and completely, and way more than anything _Derek_ had to say—demons feasted on lies and the resulting crushed hope.

Well, Stiles hoped Derek’s hunger was satiated.

And maybe Derek _could_ sense Stiles’ emotions, because at least the hellhound was wise enough to make himself scarce. Stiles didn’t know what he’d do if he faced the bastard’s mug. Thankfully, the only reminder of Derek’s presence was the inky umbra around Stiles’ shadow, darker now than when he’d first made his Deal, but no less ominous. It brought him comfort once, the night he rode his bike home in the dark, but now it just made him sad. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then, a lifetime of unexpected companionship, and a quiet sort of fulfillment Stiles hadn’t even realized he’d been lacking. Funny how betrayal so quickly twisted beauty into ugliness; then again, it happened when Lucifer fell, so maybe not so funny after all.

Maybe it had been ugly the entire time.

When he debriefed, later that day, Stiles didn’t bother piecing together a cohesive story for his disappearance during the Nemeton’s storm. He mentioned seeing something attack Scott—something Scott _insisted_ was a new alpha werewolf, not because he saw or smelled anything, but because it fought like an werewolf. Stiles explained his decision to leave the matter in Scott’s capable claws while he searched for the basilisk. He did disclose he’d found the nest, but omitted how he’d managed not to get bitten and the two extra corpses. He confessed to igniting the brood—who knew they were so _flammable_?—before collecting a sample. He had to survive, after all, and he had been alone.

But how did he find shelter in the storm? He was gone all night.

Oh, well, there was the old Hale house. He just waited it out there.

They decided Deaton should investigate the remains of the basilisk’s nest to see if anything could be salvaged for anti-venom. They decided Scott and Chris would search the woods to see if there were any signs of this new werewolf threat.

Stiles didn’t stick around to help with logistics. No one questioned him when he headed home.

Hardly anyone questioned him anymore, he realized.

His bedroom felt weirdly empty and strangely cold. Derek was nowhere to be seen, but it’s not like Derek ever physically took up space or legitimately added heat to a room. As a demon, he existed beyond the physical realm and interacted with it at his whim. Stiles knew it. He _did_. But it was unsettling how the hound’s symbolic absence triggered every trashy cliché Stiles’ wounded heart could muster.

They’d kissed three times.

They’d fallen asleep together once—twice if Stiles asleep in Derek’s lap counted.

They’d talked about poetry…a lot.

Derek saved Stiles’ life twice, because he was _contractually bound_ to so do.

It wasn’t a relationship. It was _hardly_ a friendship.

Stiles insisted it was nothing.

As he reached across his desk to turn on the lamp, Stiles caught sight of Derek through the open blinds of his bedroom window. The hound stood in the yard, shadowless despite the clear night, and watched Stiles with crimson eyes. Stiles couldn’t read his face. He didn’t want to, and had been making a fairly good show of ignoring him. But Stiles was an asshole when he wanted to be, and he _really_ wanted to be an asshole to Derek.

He dug out a chipped piece of mountain ash from where it was buried in a desk drawer. He tapped the glass of the window until Derek arched an eyebrow in question, then held it up for him to see. It was the piece he’d cut from the window sill to let Derek come and go as he pleased, back when they’d learned it, somehow, affected hellhounds. Witnessing Derek’s face blossom through forced stoicism to sinking horror satisfied Stiles in ways he didn’t anticipate. He smirked. Flipping Derek the bird, he pushed it snuggly back from where he’d cut it.

Derek tore through a veil of shadows just outside the window a half-second later, eyes brighter and a vicious snarl twisting his face, but there was nothing he could do. He slammed an open palm against what should have been easily broken glass, but the mountain ash’s magical barrier flared bright blue and rendered his actions moot.

“Fuck you,” Stiles spat.

“I can’t protect you if you lock me out,” Derek growled. The tightness of his expression belied his reasonable tone, but Stiles gave him an A for effort.

He sneered, “I don’t need your fucking protection.”

“You sold your soul for it,” the hound countered.

“I sold my soul for my dad,” Stiles corrected. “Don’t get it twisted.”

“Stiles, I have to—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles snapped. “No one gives a shit about what you have to fucking do, alright? No one. You can fulfill your contractual obligations when I’m not in the safety of my goddamn house. Until then, get lost.”

“And if something happens in the house?” Derek pressed.

“Calm the fuck down, dude. Jesus.” Stiles pointed to the mountain ash. “Nothing can get in. Including you.”

“Including me.”

Stiles nodded belittlingly.

Derek cracked, paling a shade or two while his eyes flicked this way and that, searching for some chink in the barrier. He didn’t find one, but the desperation of his search amused Stiles. “What if something happens _to_ the house?” he tried.

Stiles laughed at him outright, relishing the panic growing within the hellhound. Good, let him sweat about doing his job. Stiles hoped there was some demonic review board that would chew Derek out for poor performance.

The hound roared, slamming his fist into the barrier repeatedly, uselessly. “Stiles! Let me in!”

Laughing still, Stiles said, “Chill, Derek. It’s not like we have faulty wiring or anything.”

He regretted the words the instant he said them.

Outside his window, Derek went very quiet, very still, and lowered his hand from the window. His anger evaporated like flash steam, and Stiles saw the exact moment the shock of hurt was locked away behind a blank mask of indifference. Derek’s gaze was a bit fractured, though, unable to muster quite enough apathy against the effect of Stiles’ words.

His hellhound was Derek Hale.

“Derek,” Stiles started, “I—I’m…sorry. I…”

But the hound’s Adam’s apple bobbed with a thick swallow, and his head dropped like a child scolded—resigned. The damage was done. Derek turned to leave, but Stiles yanked the window open and desperately grabbed Derek’s jacket to stop him. He didn’t know if he wanted Derek to stay and let him apologize, or go and let him wallow in his guilt. He just knew he fucked up. He went too far and had to make it right somehow, any way Derek would let him.

Derek, however, snatched Stiles’ wrist with a crushing grip and pried it free of his sleeve. Stiles hissed and tried to take his hand back, but Derek’s held him firm, bruising.

“Derek,” Stiles stammered. He tried to twist away, to pull back into his room and let the barrier force Derek to release him. It didn’t work—Derek wouldn’t give. “Derek, you’re hurting me.” He tugged some more. “Derek. Please. Derek, let go!”

When the hound did, it was with a rough, sudden shove, and Stiles stumbled back into his bedroom, cradling his wrist.

The shape of Derek’s hand quickly bloomed dark purple against his pale skin. He rubbed it, annoyed. “Fuck, dude. I’m sorry, okay? Christ,” Stiles said, but when he looked up for Derek’s reaction, the hellhound was gone.

Before going to bed, Stiles removed the broken chip of mountain ash from his window sill and tossed it back into his desk drawer. It didn’t matter what could come in; it felt wrong keeping Derek out.

 

###

 

When Scott suddenly turned up on his doorstep one evening, Stiles’ feeble sense of security was shattered. With his father working a night shift and Derek nowhere to be found, he felt particularly vulnerable and acutely alone, despite being well aware of his capabilities; so Scott shifting nervously on the front porch did nothing to ease his anxiety.

“Scotty, hey,” Stiles said. He slipped his hand behind him, where his handgun was tucked into the back of his jeans, and leaned outside enough to take a cautious look around. Finding nothing amiss, he relaxed some—not much, but some. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk?” Scott asked, blurted, really.

Frowning, Stiles said, “Yeah, sure. Of course.” He stepped aside, and Scott walked into the living room.

They’d always been close, and had only become closer since Scott was bitten. He traversed the living room and flopped heavily onto the couch. He breathed deep and closed his eyes, as if savoring whatever it was he smelled rising up from the collapsed couch cushions. Probably popcorn butter and Dorito crumbs, his dad’s cologne, Stiles’ sweat and deodorant—the smells that made up their house, smells that made home.

Stiles opted to sit on the coffee table, directly across from Scott. The last time they’d sat like this had been when the Sheriff returned home and their hunting party celebrated. It was a strange thing to realize, but maybe not so strange. It had been the last time any of them had had the opportunity to relax and enjoy each other.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice soft.

“That’s actually what I came to ask you,” Scott muttered.

Stiles smirked mirthlessly and dropped his gaze to his folded hands. He studied his bitten nails, his torn cuticles. “What do you mean?”

With a sigh, Scott said, “You’re not fooling anyone, Stiles. We all know something’s going on with you. With Lydia, too. Did something happen between you? Is that why you’ve been so…”

“So…what?”

“Reckless.”

Amused, Stiles said, “You think something happened between Lydia and I?”

“She hasn’t been the same since that day in the parking lot, just before the basilisks. She smells different. Not like herself. I don’t know what it is, but I know she came over here. What happened?”

“And what about me?” Stiles asked, and he raised his eyes to meet Scott’s gaze. “Do I smell different?”

“You’ve smelled wrong since your dad got shot,” Scott admitted awkwardly. “I figured it was something relating to it. Like grief, maybe. Deaton said something about using smell to help read people’s emotions, like dogs do. It’s been weird; I haven’t figured it all out yet. Anyway, what’s been up with you, dude?”

“Nothing,” Stiles lied.

“What happened with Lydia?”

The not-kiss had changed things more than Stiles could have ever anticipated.

Because, fuck, even _Scott_ noticed it.

It had initially left him in intimacy purgatory, a limbo of closeness with Derek and Lydia where, for Stiles, _too much_ and _not enough_ existed as parallel lines related only by _can never go back_. He knew. He’d graphed it.

If he were honest with himself, his confliction had stemmed from the sense of trading possibility with Lydia for possibility with Derek. He was ashamed to nausea when it felt like the right choice, at the time. Despite whatever certainties might have been the foundation of Stiles-and-Lydia—the love between them, how deeply they understood one another—the certainty of his nearing end had forced Stiles’ hand. The how and when of Stiles’ death made whatever uncertainties with Derek the more certain option.

Or, so he’d thought. Derek disappeared, after all.

Maybe it was better this way, with Lydia shying away from his touch and averting her eyes from him. Maybe this was how Stiles distanced himself from his loved ones to spare them what pain he could when Derek finally took him down.

“Nothing,” Stiles answered again. “And that’s what went wrong.”

“I don’t get it,” Scott mumbled.

“We were going to kiss, and then we didn’t,” Stiles said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s awkward now, is all.”

“If it’s just awkward, why are you making such stupid decisions during hunts?”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles stood and paced the living room. “They’re not stupid decisions, Scott. Just because no one can see a situation the way I do, doesn’t make it stupid. I get the job done, don’t I? The monsters die. That’s what we’re all working toward. Why isn’t that enough?”

“We almost lost your dad, Stiles,” Scott eased. “It’s like we’re almost losing you every time we hunt. It’s…it’s fucking terrible, to worry about you like that. I mean, imagine what it’s doing to your dad, if the rest of us are all in knots. I got attacked in the woods and _you disappeared for the entire night._ ”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Stiles took deep, exasperated breath through his nose. “Scott—” he started. But then he stopped.

None of this was Scott’s fault, and Scott was his best friend. They were like brothers, bound even closer now, in blood and battle. Stiles’ choices chased Lydia away. Stiles’ choices chased Derek away. And now Stiles chose to chase Scott away.

He forced a smile to his face, condescending and inconvenienced. “I appreciate you stopping by. I’m fine, though. You don’t have to worry.”

Scott pinched his brows and didn’t seem convinced, wounded by Stiles’ dismissal. “Stiles…”

“Really, Scotty,” he insisted. “I’m fine.”

 

###

 

The Nemeton’s storm beckoned; its magic was an undeniable maelstrom drawing all manner of supernatural creatures to Beacon Hills. The effects of its vortex and the massive influx of monsters flooded the Sheriff’s office with missing persons, missing pets, and animal attacks; cadavers flooded the morgue with unidentifiable ailments and wounds.

It was too big for such a small town to handle.

Agent McCall headed the FBI’s investigation of Beacon Hill’s violence outbreak and brought in a team of experts, so Scott’s dad made an appearance for the first time in ages. The FBI believed everything somehow connected to a group of particularly disturbed persons, as similar pockets of violent activity had been reported elsewhere. A traveling cult, as McCall concluded in his briefing.

According to Deaton, however, the connection the FBI discovered was one of Telluric Currents and the supernatural, not a nomadic group of psychopaths.

Their secrecy was finally working against them.

Melissa and Scott took point with the Sheriff to lead Agent McCall’s investigation astray. Natalie volunteered at the hospital and temporarily replaced Melissa as their main medical informant, though Melissa still made time to translate medical jargon.

While in town, the FBI decided it prudent to monitor Chris, despite his valid licenses and copious documentation, so his movements were limited to nothing. Allison became his agent in the field, the pair in constant contact via radio whenever hunting.

FBI presence left Allison, Stiles, and Lydia the only ones able to hunt.

“Are you sure a manticore would, like, chill in the warehouse district?” Stiles asked over the radio. He parked his Jeep at point Gamma, the third in their triangulated plan of attack, and farthest away from frequent civilian occupation. Out here, he only had to worry about running into the occasional group of stoners and, well, the manticore, apparently.

“This is the last place we haven’t checked,” Lydia’s voice responded. Her starting position was point Alpha, closest to other people, and the easiest for anyone but Stiles to get to should she scream. “And it’s the only plausible creature.”

“Because manticores leave _so_ much evidence,” Stiles drawled.

“Footprints, fur, scat,” Allison chimed in.

But no bones, clothes, or possessions of its prey. It swallowed everything whole.

Stiles sighed. “None of which can be easily tracked through a concrete jungle.”

“Guys, stay focused,” Chris scolded, his voice hard even through Stiles’ earpiece. “You’re running on limited support, and this is a very big, very dangerous creature. It’s probably very confused and easily threatened.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t add ‘very hungry,’” Stiles commented.

Lydia tutted, “Not likely considering how many people have gone missing.”

“You mean eaten,” Allison said. Stiles noticed, but didn’t mention the tremor in her voice.

This was Allison’s first hunt without her father by her side, and she’d be foolish not to be hyper-alert and particularly cautious.

“Thanks for spelling it out, Ally,” Lydia sighed. Her laugh was a little too shrill.

This was Lydia’s first hunt without a partner to watch her back, and she’d be naïve to discount the danger she faced.

“Look on the bright side,” Stiles said. “We shouldn’t be on the menu.”

This was neither Stiles’ first hunt without his father, nor was it his first hunt without immediate back up. Stiles had a hellhound. He hadn’t seen Derek since their fight nearly a week before, but he’d made a demonic contract that guaranteed he live, and live well, for the next seven-ish months. Stiles understood he was both foolish and naïve, but he believed Derek would fulfill his obligations.

It was the only thing he believed about Derek anymore.

“Okay,” Allison breathed, “Just like we planned. Fan out, check every building for traces of the target, and check in every ten minutes. Sound the alarm if you find anything.”

Stiles muttered an affirmative, then waited to hear Lydia do the same before turning down the volume of his radio. He checked his bag for supplies, checked his person for his weapons, and, with the help of a nearby streetlight, checked his shadow for its demonic halo.

If Derek really could sense his emotions, the hellhound would know intimately the depths of Stiles’ terror. Stiles would never consider such ignorance acceptable, and he’d never be able to change it. They were all that stood between the citizens of Beacon Hills and slaughter.

Though there always seemed to be more slaughter than they could manage.

The area was eerily silent as Stiles strode towards the first of the warehouses in his assigned sector. It was big. Easily five stories tall, and maybe a quarter of a city block, and he needed to thoroughly clear it before moving to the next one. His sneakered steps crashed and crushed through the gravel, and lighting was scarce. The target it painted on his back unsettled him, but it would ultimately be to his advantage. If he could just find the manticore and antagonize it, Derek could do the rest, like he always did. Or he’d at least keep Stiles alive so Stiles could do it himself.

Whatever worked.

He checked in twice with the girls before he cleared his first building. Nothing but the echo of his footsteps, creepy shadows, and small vermin, though he did almost fall a few stories when a rusted ladder gave out beneath his weight. He caught himself before he fell too far. It was fine.

The second warehouse was much the same. During a check in, Lydia mentioned finding questionable goop, but since it was clearly unrelated to the manticore, Chris told her to just collect a sample; they’d study it later.

Stiles turned up the volume of his radio. “How big is this thing, again?” he asked, carefully pushing the door open to warehouse number three.

“Think Clydesdale,” Chris answered.

“The Budweiser horse?”

“Yeah, that.”

Stiles whistled, low and impressed.

“And you’re expecting one of us to take it down alone?”

“Don’t need the reminder, Stiles,” Lydia interjected.

“Well, you can just scream, Lyds, and Ally and I will come to you,” Stiles dismissed callously. “Allison probably could take it down herself. Me? Well, I don’t know. I’ll figure something out.”

“You took down a tsuchigumo queen,” Allison remarked.

“And survived falling into a basilisk nest,” Chris added. “You’ll be fine, Stiles.”

Stiles hummed noncommittally, and turned down his radio again before climbing up a set of rickety stairs to explore the higher floors of warehouse number three. He found nothing, but the view through the broken windows was worth a moment’s pause. More cobwebs, more dust, more forgotten debris. He kicked a discarded beer bottle through a hole in the floor, then watched it fall and shatter on the concrete below. When he started unintentionally identifying with the bottle on a spiritual level, he rolled his eyes at his own stupidity and headed back to the questionable staircase.

He supposed, wandering around abandoned warehouses alone, his problem was somehow reconciling Derek the Hellhound with Derek Hale. He daydreamed and missed and yearned for an _idea_ of Derek Hale he developed as a kid. This idea had zero factual basis, but had been nurtured long enough by a lonely, confused, and disgustingly romantic child, the resulting lonely, confused, and disgustingly romantic adult simply accepted the premise as fact. The Derek Hale in his head was the Derek Hale who had died in the fire, the same Derek Hale who’d given him _Crush_ , and the same Derek Hale who Stiles had somehow fallen in love with in a truly terrible Elizabethan fashion—traversing time and space and even death. It was a fantasy, an idea, something to comfort him when Lydia’s rejection stung just a little too much, or Scott and Allison’s torrid love affair made him just a little too jealous.

_Derek wouldn’t tease me about this._

_Derek would probably think my jokes were funny._

_Derek would have thought it was totally romantic._

Ultimately, it all translated to _Derek would have loved and accepted me._

If only he’d lived long enough for them to properly meet.

Indulging in the idea of an imaginary boyfriend through achingly beautiful poetry had been a _completely harmless coping mechanism_.

And fuck, that’s what it had been, hadn’t it? Some sort of imaginary boyfriend. A coping mechanism. A way to tend to his own wounded heart and loneliness.

Would dying of mortification void the conditions of his contract?

The Derek Hale he’d constructed was not the Derek Hale he came to know. When he thought of kissing Derek Hale, well, Stiles couldn’t really put it into words because it was always so heavily influenced by _Crush_ , but it wasn’t anywhere near the magnitude of kissing Derek the Hellhound. The stark difference between fantasy and reality alone forced the two concepts to occupy different areas of thought. The Derek Hale smiling in past photos of the Beacon Hills High basketball team wasn’t the Derek who smiled just before kissing Stiles. Derek the Hellhound was older, with darker eyes and a burden weighting down his broad shoulders. The Derek Hale in photos hadn’t been burned alive. Derek the Hellhound—really, the true Derek Hale, and Stiles needed to think of him as such—the Derek Hale Stiles knew suffered the fires of his burning home and the fires of Hell.

Should Stiles really be angry to find they’re so different?

No, that wasn’t entirely right, either.

As he steadied himself to traverse the staircases’ tricky descent, sparks of bright light caught Stiles’ attention. Curious, and immediately alert, he abandoned the stairs and peeked through one of the foggy, broken windows of the warehouse. A faint _pop pop pop_ reached him a fraction of a second after another series of flashes. His radio crackled with static.

The volume was low. He turned it up with shaking hands.

Allison and Lydia shouted to each other and to Chris. There was a tinny roar, one that echoed faintly in real time through the air, and more pops.

Gunfire. The manticore.

Stiles leaped down the staircase, pushing off the railings to swing his legs and vault. A few hard landings, and a few collapsed steps didn’t stop him—they hardly slowed him down considering his momentum—and burst through one of the crippled doors of his warehouse into the night air. Per usual, he memorized the mission range and maps before implementation, so when he turned up the volume of his radio, it was Chris he talked to, not either of the girls.

“Where are they?” Stiles demanded. He still hated running, would probably always hate running, but he was better at regulating his breathing enough to talk while doing it. Static pulsed in his ear, and but he followed the gunfire until it grew louder. The closer he got, the more easily he distinguished the roars of the manticore and the barrage of the girls’ arsenals.

“They’re in Beta 5,” Chris finally answered. “Stiles, that thing is overwhelming them.”

“I know!” Stiles answered. “I got this, Chris. Stiles out.” He pulled the radio from his ear as he closed in on warehouse Beta 5, the fifth of the warehouses, and where Allison apparently found the manticore. He couldn’t have everyone screaming in his ear if he was supposed to concentrate, and the screaming… High and shrill, terrified. Lydia and Allison communicated effectively, if a little erratically, over the sounds of the manticore’s roars and their weapons, through the chaos and their fear.

Stiles burst into the warehouse just in time to offer cover fire while Allison ducked behind a stack of abandoned crates. Crouching low, she reloaded her weapon. Several feet away, using a palette of barrels as cover, Lydia tried to draw the creature’s attention from where it zeroed in on Allison.

With a sardonic sort of mirth, Stiles appreciated the bestiary, because for once, the creature looked exactly like their research described, except significantly bigger—moreover, it felt like they weren’t so ignorant, which was unexpected in and of itself. It stood nearly a story and a half tall when on its hind, lion-like legs, and was satyrly in its stance and how it moved; quick and loping, a little encumbered by its massive scorpid tail. Though it occasionally pivoted its weight onto its humanoid hands, it was to arch its tail over its body to thrust its barbed and toxic tip towards its enemies. The horns of a buffalo jutted from the top of its head, nestled in the rust-red mane of a lion, and when it snarled, its anthropomorphic nature was the most horrific. Both human and animal, both natural and unnatural.

He couldn’t let Lydia be the target.

Stiles unloaded a clip of ammo into the beast, and threw himself into the fray. Boldly standing between Allison’s position and manticore, Stiles didn’t hesitate to discard the empty clip and reload. He didn’t flinch, his hands steady as he aimed and pulled the trigger, while the beast reared back and slashed with its claws. Stiles just ducked and dodged, as he was trained to do, and fired more rounds into the creature.

The bullets were useless. When Allison popped up from her cover and loosed a few arrows, they were useless, too. But they all knew that.

“It’s starting to get pissed,” Lydia called out.

“Oh, you think?” Stiles snarked. He kept his attention on the manticore as he ran in an arc, just beyond the reach of its claws. He jerked back when it lashed out with its tail. The girls continued to fire from their positions while Stiles entertained its rage.

“How long until it fires?” Allison demanded. Stiles didn’t have his radio in his ear, so he couldn’t hear Chris’ response, but Allison added, “What do you mean, ‘it charges up’?!”

As if Allison’s voice gave life to the words, Stiles witnessed it happen.

The manticore blinked with an extra set of eyelids, its pupils dilating fathomlessly and sinister. It sucked in ragged breath and dug its claws into the ground, breaking the concrete of the warehouse until soft soil sprayed into the air. Its torso dropped low, almost flat against the ground, and it stretched its hind-quarters up high—to give its tail the clearest shot. And then it fired.

Stiles learned firsthand how manticore barbs shoot very much like a railgun: quickly, powerfully, and in rapid succession. It was a spray shot, like a shotgun shell, and Stiles immediately threw himself at the nearest form of cover. But he wasn’t fast enough. As he landed hard behind a stack of empty palettes, he realized everything between his thigh and his toes had abruptly disconnected from his brain. The toxin, a sort of nerve agent and acid concoction according to their sources, worked with a fast-acting local anesthetic, so the victim doesn’t feel the acid eat away at their muscle tissue; it let the manticore easily consume its prey whole. When Stiles looked at his leg, a meter-long barb jutted gruesomely from his thigh.

“Fuck!” he screamed.

“Stiles is down!” Lydia said, presumably into the radio.

“Goddamn it!” Allison hissed.

“I’m not down!” Stiles lied. He grabbed his earpiece and turned up his radio. “I’m not down,” he repeated. From where he lay behind his cover, neither of the girls could see him. He grabbed the barb and yanked it from his leg. The seeping acid cauterized his wound upon its exit, so there was only a tear in his pant leg, which literally could have been from anything. He stashed the barb in the gap between a pair of pallets. “I just landed hard!”

“You’re down,” Derek said, appearing beside Stiles’ prone form. He was kneeling, ducking behind the cover as well, though no one but Stiles could see him.

Stiles startled, but instantly relaxed. “Derek,” he breathed, a little shocked. But he returned to himself quickly, because Derek’s eyes were hard and cold, completely devoid of the concern Stiles had grown so used to seeing. He looked tired—could hellhounds get tired?—with marks like bruises beneath his eyes, and what looked like a healing cut along his cheek. Stiles didn’t ask, though the question burned anxiously on the tip of his tongue. “I’m fine,” he said instead, knowing damn well he wasn’t.

“The muscles of your leg are breaking down into soup,” Derek countered.

“I can’t even feel it,” Stile said. He flinched when another barrage of barbs rained upon them, trying to make himself a smaller target behind his already small cover. He counted to five before hoisting himself to his feet. “We need to get a barb.”

“They’re all damaged from hitting stuff,” Lydia said.

“I’m hit,” Allison suddenly hissed into the radio.

“What?” Stiles said, at the same time as Chris demanded, “How?”

“It kicked up chunks of concrete,” Allison said, and how she controlled her breathing was evident through the static. “My arm. I don’t know if it’s broken. I’m bleeding.”

The manticore rushed where Allison hid, but she threw herself into a jerky run and escaped to join Lydia before it came close to reaching her. Despite this, the creature took its time completely demolishing the stack of crates, wooden shrapnel hurling through the air as violently and erratically as its barb barrage.

“You need to pull out,” Chris shouted. “Do you hear me? Disengage and get out the hell of there!”

“No,” Stiles said, and watched to see if Derek would suddenly abandon him. When the hound didn’t disappear, he continued, “It’s already geared up and shooting barbs. Ally and Lydia should get out of here, but I can take this thing. It’s a lot slower than you think.”

“Stiles, it’s too risky,” Lydia said. “And it’s not slow!”

“Lydia, just get Allison out,” Stiles snapped. “Get to one of your cars, and get the fuck out, okay? I can handle this.”

“Stiles—”

“I took down a tsuchigumo queen, remember? I toasted a basilisk nest. I’ll. Be. Fine.”

“Lydia, if Allison is hurt, your priority is getting her to safety,” Chris said. “If Stiles wants to be a _fucking idiot_ , you can’t stop him.”

“Yeah,” Stiles goaded. “You can’t stop me.” To Derek, and sure the radio wouldn’t pick it up, he said, “If they see me limping, they won’t leave. Can you heal me enough so I can feel my leg?”

Derek didn’t acknowledge him. He watched the manticore with the intensity of a predator monitoring prey, his hand twitching against the edge of a palette and ending in wicked claws. His jaw clenched every now again, and he seemed strained to the point of breaking.

“Derek?” Stiles implored. Met with silence, Stiles pressed tentative fingertips to Derek’s leather-clad shoulder. The hound recoiled with a small jolt, and Stiles let his hand drop in defeat. “Derek, please,” he said, gentle. “If they know I’m hurt, they’ll stay. I can’t protect them, but you know I’ll try. You’re supposed to—”

“I _know_ what I’m supposed to do,” Derek grit. He looked up to Stiles, finally, anger burning hot. But hurt, too. Derek was hurt, somehow. He shook his head and sighed as if inconvenienced before wrapping his hand around Stiles’ thigh.

The angle was awkward, with Derek’s hand snaking up between Stiles’ legs, but despite Stiles’ dick tending to ignore dire circumstances, the sheer intense rush of _burning burning searing burning_ had him choking on a breath. He clutched the palette he used as cover until his knuckles were white. “Fuck,” he hissed, pressing his forehead beside his trembling hand. Cold sweat stuck his clothes to his skin. “Fuck, that burns.”

“You’ll limp because it hurts,” Derek said, pulling his hand away and looking back to the manticore. “And because your leg is literally breaking down in your skin. Not because it’s dead weight you can’t feel.”

“Good,” Stiles murmured. “Ally would be able to tell the difference.” He pressed the button to talk into the radio and said, “Okay, ladies. I’ll distract the fucker so you can get the hell out. When I run deeper into the warehouse, make a break for it.”

“Stiles, this is suicide,” Lydia said.

“We can’t leave you,” Allison pleaded.

“You have to,” Chris snarled, vicious and angry. “Allison is hurt, and Lydia has to get her out. If you leave together, the manticore will kill you all. Stiles might be able to give it the slip.”

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles said again. He stood up straight, favoring his uninjured leg, and checked his weapon. He patted his pockets to make sure reloading wouldn’t hinder him, then nodded to where Lydia and Allison wore twin expressions of desperate worry. He smirked to them, winked, then stepped out from his cover and fired a few rounds into the manticore’s hunched shoulders.

It spun around and roared. What little glass remained in the windows of the warehouse shattered, and Stiles’ ears popped when he was buffeted by the powerful soundwave and splashes of spittle.

“Come and get me, fucker,” Stiles said.

He dodged when the manticore struck with its scorpid tail, and broke into a loping run deeper into the warehouse’s darkness. He tried to hide his limp, put as much weight on his degrading leg as he could, but the pain had him automatically favoring the stronger of his limbs. He ducked and covered his head when the manticore’s charge broke through abandoned stacks of crates and barrels, and hardly felt the sting when the shrapnel cut him through his hoodie and jeans.

Derek growl-barked, the haunting sound that always shook Stiles to the core, and charged the manticore to cover Stiles’ escape. Stiles hadn’t even noticed Derek shedding his human skin, but the pitch black shadow bleeding through air like ink through water was unmistakable in Stiles’ peripheral vision.

“Lydia, come on!” Allison screamed. And the way her voice was panicked, hysterical, had Stiles turning before he could think better of it.

There, hovering in the broken doorway that would lead them to safety, Lydia stood stark-still, despite how Allison tugged to urge her onward. With Allison’s arm draped over her shoulders, Lydia stood there, still within the manticore’s strike range…

…watching Derek and the manticore fight.

Derek, kept low to the ground when his paws were on the concrete, nimble and fast where the manticore was bulky and slow, and that was where Lydia’s gaze lingered: on Derek. The hound let the strikes get close enough for the manticore’s weight to follow through before juking to the side and rending monster flesh with his fangs.

“Lydia!” Allison screamed again.

“LYDIA!” Stiles bellowed.

Her hazel eyes, wide and fearful, flicked away from the two monsters fighting, and zeroed in on Stiles. He’d just barely broken the line of darkness, knew she had to be able to see him through the gloom if she was staring so intently.

“GO!” Stiles called again, waving his arm frantically.

Allison tugged one last hopeless time, and Lydia finally moved.

Stiles didn’t breathe easy until they disappeared from sight. But he quickly flailed back into the immediacy of the moment when Derek careened through debris and into the wall behind where Stiles stood. “Derek?!”

The hound picked himself up shakily, human-looking once more, and rolled his shoulders. “Get behind me, Stiles,” he growled.

Stiles obeyed without question, hobbling further into the dark, despite how _weak_ Derek looked. Pale, sweating, breathing hard. Stiles had never seen him look so human during a fight. Then again, he’d never actually seen Derek _fight_ before—Derek typically killed the monsters while Stiles ran. From over the hound’s shoulder, he watched the manticore dig its fore-claws into the floor, again, spewing dirt and concrete in every direction. It rained, heavy and violent, but Derek wrapped himself around Stiles’ hunched form and shielded him. Not a moment later, the manicore released another barrage of its toxic barbs. They _thunked_ and _twapped_ into the surrounding area, and Stiles flinched with every strike despite Derek’s arms around him. Then, Derek’s arm jerked where they huddled together. Stiles stomach dropped—Derek was hit.

Derek pulled away to stand, and extended the barb he _caught_. “You need this to kill it, right?” he asked.

Nodding, Stiles trembled with a sick sort of relief—the kind that made him nauseous and teary at the same time. Derek wasn’t hit. Derek was okay. “Yeah,” he said. “Only its own toxin can kill it.” He gestured to the snarling beast. “I don’t know where the hell to stab it—its mane seems effectively thick, and if bullets don’t pierce the skin, I don’t know how the barb will.”

“I see,” Derek said. “Take this. Wait for your opening.” He thrust the barb into Stiles’ awaiting grasp, then leaped and grabbed the low-hanging remains of what was once a ladder. He hoisted himself up onto a rickety catwalk and, as a wolf, bolted the length of the warehouse.

The manticore dismissed Stiles and focused on Derek as the bigger threat, turning its lumbering body to follow the hellhound prowling the rafters a good ten feet above it. Derek barked and growled and snarled, snapping his jaws and flaring his eyes until the manticore’s back was completely turned to Stiles.

Was that the opening? It looked like an opening, since the manticore’s tail and teeth and claws were so preoccupied with Derek.

Stiles limped away from the protection of his shattered cover, one hand resting over the wound in his thigh while the other clutched the barb Derek gave him. The palettes had been impaled again and again with manticore barbs like a Spartan shield, and Stiles’ stomach dropped realizing how very close he was to a similar fate.

The manticore followed Derek’s barks and snarls from the rafters as Stiles painfully made his way towards his target. Scarlet eyes flashed to him every now and again, tracking his progress.

Each step was agony, and several steps nearly ended with Stiles collapsing. If he didn’t believe Derek’s assessment of his injury in the beginning, he certainly believed it as he approached the battle; his bone felt rubbery, malleable in ways bones just shouldn’t be, and his muscles didn’t always comply with his commands to contract or extend. His knee locked, his ankle twisted awkwardly, his toes were numb.

When Stiles was close enough, Derek shifted into his human form with a swirl of shadow, and dropped from his position on the catwalk, precariously close to the manticore’s snapping, foaming jaws. Stiles’ heart clenched, but the hound was nonplussed as always, focused on how, on the way down, he grabbed the manticore by its wildebeest horns. The force of his fall, or Derek’s demonic manipulation of reality, dragged the monster’s face to the ground with his weight. A small crater formed in the concrete where they landed, and Stiles flinched when the impact kicked up debris.

Derek wrangled the manticore the way a cowboy might wrangle a young bull, gritting his teeth with grim determination as he yanked its head and forced it in place. The manticore thrashed and flailed, dug its claws into the ground and tugged, but nothing could budge Derek’s grip. It wailed, a pathetic, terrified sort of roar, but Derek grunted and just jerked his grip violently.

A deafening _crack_ echoed through the warehouse, and with a huff of exhausted air, the manticore went still. Mostly.

“What did you _do_?” Stiles asked, limping closer. The manticore’s heaving breaths kicked up dust and dirt, but otherwise, it remained still. With Derek so near its jaws and so clearly in control, Stiles felt a bit more confident in his cautious approach.

“Snapped its neck,” Derek said simply. “It’s not dead. It’ll heal fast. You have the barb?” And the manticore suddenly started thrashing again. Derek growled and twisted at the waist. Another crack resounded, and the manticore went still again. “See?” the hound asked, eyebrows raised in annoyance.

Stiles nodded, and Derek obliged him by twisted the manticore’s head to face him.

“It’s ugly,” Stiles muttered. But it seemed so terrified and helpless in the hellhound’s merciless hold.

“It’s a manticore,” Derek answered.

Nodding again, Stiles flexed his fingers around the barb in his hand. Without thinking of its soulful cow’s eyes or its quiet whimpers, Stiles heaved a breath to resolve his nerves and—just like he’d seen in a Netflix show—jabbed the creature in the eye with its own barb. The squish and squelch of impalement, the high-pitched screech, the finality of the beast’s body going limp…Stiles’ stomach lurched, but he turned his back to the corpse and eased himself to the uneven ground. He swallowed a breath so he wouldn’t throw up.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Holy _shit_.”

Derek rounded into his vision, dusting his hands on his jeans. He knelt at Stiles’ hip, and framed the tear in Stiles’ pants—the cauterized wound—with broad palms and bruising fingers. He watched the wound and stilled the involuntary twitches of Stiles’ muscles.

Leaning back on his elbows, Stiles stared at the ceiling while Derek worked, and breathed rapid, shallow gasps. His ears rang, and he struggled to focus his vision, but he recognized the demonic magic, the heat purging the manticore toxin and reconstructing his leg. It hurt. It burned worse than he remembered from the Hale house, and he groaned through clenched teeth. Only when he started to feel sleepy did the pain dull.

“Derek,” he said, but the hellhound didn’t look away from his work. “Derek,” he repeated, pushing himself into a more upright position. He touched Derek’s shoulder, but flinched back when his head snapped up with a severe expression. “About the other night—”

Shaking his head, Derek interrupted, “Shut up, Stiles.”

“No,” he argued. “Seriously, Derek, I—”

“I said shut up, Stiles,” the hound snarled viciously, eyes blazing.

Lips pulled into a snarl of his own, Stiles snapped, “What the fuck, dude? I’m trying not be such a dick, but it’s hard when you’re being a dick, too.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed incredulously, then his grip tightened, fingertips digging deeply and painfully into the flesh of Stiles’ thigh. “Shut _up_ , Stiles,” he repeated.

As much as it hurt, Stiles jutted his chin defiantly and refused to look away. He licked his lips, opened his mouth to speak, and, with a sudden head-rush, everything went dark.

He awoke later—a few hours later, according to his watch—flat on broken warehouse concrete with a faint tingling in his limbs. He groaned, grumbled about abandonment and rude hellhounds, and sat up. “Derek?” he called. “Derek!” When silence answered him, he sighed wetly and looked over his shoulder to where the manticore carcass lay, half-decomposed and stinking.

He’d never woken up alone before. When Derek’s healing pulled him to sleep, someone had been on the verge of finding him, or he’d awaken to Derek’s company. But no one was coming for him—he’d sent everyone away; and Derek had no reason to stay—Stiles had chased him off, too.

After hauling himself to his feet—a feat he wasn’t sure he’d be able to manage, but Derek apparently healed him after all—he messaged Allison, Lydia, and Chris to tell them the manticore was dead. Then, he messaged Deaton about disposing the body. Per the Druid’s instruction, Stiles cut off the barb of its tail, his hunting knife surprisingly effective against decaying manticore skin, then set the corpse ablaze. He didn’t care if the building burned. Someone would call the fire department, and the body would be a pile of unidentifiable ash by the time the flames were extinguished.

He limped back to his Jeep with a general, bone-deep ache in his chest, and wondered where Derek went.

 

###

 

“How’d you do it?”

Stiles looked up from his plate of spaghetti, then slurped the noodle hanging near his chin. After wiping his face, he frowned at his father and asked, “What do you mean?”

It was a quiet night, the first they’d had in a while. The pile of unsolved and mysterious cases continued to grow on the Sheriff’s desk, but it was easier to manage than in prior years. While the some cases could never be completely closed, the Sheriff knew the cause and was able to stop it. Closure might never come to the victims’ families, but the threat to the town would be neutralized. With the Sheriff no longer spending so much time at the station, pouring over files, it allowed a modicum of normalcy to return to the Stilinski home.

Stiles often ate dinner with his dad. It was nice, comfortable, familiar, sitting at the kitchen table to share a meal. He’d sold his soul for it.

“The manticore. How’d you kill it?”

“Lucky shot,” Stiles muttered. He pushed pasta around his plate with his fork.

The Sheriff frowned, more sad than angry. Disappointed, sure, but not really with Stiles. It was hard to parse, especially when Stiles avoided prolonged eye-contact. “You’ve had a lot of those, lately,” he responded, measured.

“We both have,” Stiles said, his smile weak.

Shaking his head, the Sheriff said, “You’re good, kid, but you aren’t that good. What’s really going on?”

“Nothing,” Stiles lied. He didn’t bother putting effort into it; he just hoped his dad would drop it, like everyone else had.

“I don’t know what I did to break your trust—”

Stiles slammed his fist on the table and shot to his feet. “You haven’t broken my trust!”

“—but I know you’re not being completely honest with me. Or anyone, for that matter.”

Stiles scrubbed his face, then ran his anxious hands through his hair. “What do you want me to say?” he asked helplessly. “Isn’t what I’m doing enough? Isn’t it enough that we’re protecting people?”

“Not when you’re not sleeping,” his father said, softly.

Stiles hardly slept since his fight with Derek.

The sheriff didn’t stand, rather, just turned in his seat to better see his son. Stiles never felt like more of a child than when his dad looked at him so morosely. Like he was at a loss for what to do. “Not when you look strung out and at your wit’s end.” He watched where he fiddled with his wedding band. Stiles wondered if his father somehow derived strength from the memories of his mother.

What would Claudia say? How would Claudia get through to Stiles?

Stiles had never felt so alone—pushing his family away for their own sake, knowing he was going to suddenly…not be around. He was loved; he knew it and felt it every day. But knowing he’d eventually break their hearts? That he’d have to leave them? Derek knew about Hell. Derek had understood.

But Derek was gone, too.

“We’re worried about you, kid.”

“And I’m worried about you,” Stiles countered. “Just let me do this, okay? I can do this. I _am_ doing it, and I’m doing a damn good job.”

“You know what the problem is with luck, Stiles?” The Sheriff titled his head, his expression gentle and so so loving. “It runs out. Everything as an expiration date.”

“I know,” Stiles said. His eyes burned, so he fled the house and slammed the door behind him.

 

###

 

When the succubus descended upon Beacon Hills, its modus operandi was easy enough to identify. Bodies turned up outside of clubs and in trashy motel rooms, pale, their faces frozen somewhere between horror and ecstasy. The only question remaining was that of the creature’s gender—whether it was a succubus or an incubus—because the victims were of varying gender. Chris nervously paced the length of his desk while they discussed it in his office.

“Does it matter?” Stiles asked, indignant. “I mean, it’s a sex demon. What does it matter whether it’s an incubus or a succubus?”

“Because some of us might be more vulnerable to one over the other,” Lydia answered.

Chris nodded in reluctant agreement, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

Their haggard meeting group consisted of Stiles, Lydia, Allison, Chris, and the Sheriff. Unfortunately, the new slew of murders convinced the FBI a serial rapist was predating on an already terrorized town, what with their psychotic cult theory still in full swing. It kept Melissa and Scott tied up with Agent McCall, and Natalie at the hospital to compensate for Melissa’s absence. The Sheriff, thankfully, was able to escape the town’s unwelcome guests every now and again; the new threat’s criminal elements were enough justification to warrant him leaving and ‘investigating’ on his own.

Allison drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair where she sat, the movement limited by her splinted wrist. She hadn’t broken any bones during the manticore ordeal, but she had stress lines that could become breaks, and a few bruised tendons. Much to her chagrin, she was officially out of the fight. For a while, anyway. It left her anxious, irritable, and less patient than normal. She often yelled at Stiles over the radio for his rash decisions and reckless behavior while hunting.

But what could Stiles do? He and Lydia were the only available hunters to go after the fae, the changling, and the inferi; and Lydia didn’t have a hellhound bodyguard.

It had been a rough few weeks.

“And it’s not a demon,” Allison interjected.

Stiles frowned. “And…why are we assuming that? The bestiary says it’s a demon.”

“One,” Chris said, holding up a finger. “Demons don’t exist. Demonic influences are hyperbole at best, relics from particularly religious times. And two—” He held up a second finger. “Since when are you interested in trusting the bestiary?”

“Since it was right, for once, about the manticore,” Stiles lied. “And it wasn’t too far off about the inferi.” He decided to keep his arguments about demons behind his chapped and bitten lips. Whether the succubus was _actually_ a demon, he couldn’t say, but he knew demons were real. And if the succubus was, in fact, a demon, they were in a whole hell of a lot more trouble than anyone of them could fathom. “Anyway, why don’t we just, you know, err on the side of caution?”

“Because Holy Water is a joke,” Allison said. “And it would be stupid to send you in with any faith in it. No pun intended.”

Stiles snickered anyway.

“So now comes the awkward part,” the Sheriff said. “Who _can’t_ approach a succubus?” He raised his hand, then glanced around the room expectantly.

Chris raised his hand, as did Allison.

With surprised eyebrows, Stiles blinked at her.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, then gestured to her splint.

_Ah, okay, then._

But when _Lydia_ raised her hand, Stiles couldn’t stop his face from contorting into a manic sort of shock. “What? When did _this_ happen?”

“Sexuality is fluid,” she sniped.

“But…what about…?”

Lydia gave him _the look_ —eyes wide and challenging, eyebrows up and indignant, lips pursed and disapproving—so he promptly dropped the question. Instead, he raised his hand, too. Just because he passed up an opportunity to be with Lydia didn’t mean he didn’t _want_ to be with her. He did. He just…couldn’t.

And then with Derek…

Stiles’ chest ached, and he hated it.

“Alright,” the Sheriff said. “That’s fair, I guess. Who _can’t_ face an incubus?”

Stiles raised his hand, as did Lydia and Allison. The scrutiny with which the Sheriff watched Stiles was as discreet as a hurtling brick. Thankfully, he didn’t push the matter, so nothing surprising there; but Stiles had the distinct feeling he’d be getting ‘the talk’ the next chance the Sheriff got.

With a sigh, Stiles said, “Alright, so basically, I’m on my own.”

“What?” Lydia asked. “We’re in the same boat!”

Shaking his head, he answered, “No. Not even close.” He chuckled, soft and sardonic. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Lydia, you’re probably used to people coming onto you. I, on the other hand, am not nearly as appealing to the masses. If someone approached me, I’d know instantly it was the demon.” He scoffed. “I mean, come on.”

“Stiles, that’s not—”

But he interrupted his father. “I’m not looking for encouragement or compliments. Seriously. If I make myself obvious as a hunter, it’ll probably make a move to take me out. I’m never hit on or flirted with, so anything out of the norm, and I’ll know. I’ll be ready.”

“This isn’t a good plan,” Chris said, his frown deep with paternal disappointment. “We can’t provide enough support for this.”

Stiles said, “Everyone else is susceptible to its powers and deception. Just tell me how to kill it and let me go. The sooner we bring it down, the better.”

The Sheriff grabbed Stiles by the bicep and jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “The _only_ reason I’m even a little okay with this is because of how you’ve proven yourself lately.” Then he pulled Stiles into a crushing hug. “I know you can take care of yourself, but I’m still worried. We’ll bail you out the moment things go sideways, but this isn’t a good plan.”

“It’s the only one we have,” Stiles murmured into his shoulder. He twisted his shaking fingers into his father’s uniform shirt, pressing his flushed cheek against the cold metal of his badge. “It’s all we’ve got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles becomes desperate, and nothing is beyond him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNING*  
> blood; gore; self-destructive behavior; self-harm; attempted suicide; dub-con
> 
> this chapter picks up with the concept of sex demons (this is the dub-con part), and the ending scene is very very dark. please please *please* be advised.

The night of the hunt, Stiles stood before the full-length mirror of his room and nervously watched his reflection. He’d managed to dress himself—as in, he put the clothes on without assistance—but Lydia picked them from his closet. Dark grey jeans, snug through the hips and thighs, pooled comfortably at the ankle. It let him wear his boots and easily access the knife strapped there. His blood-red collared shirt highlighted the broad lines of his shoulders, the lean lines of his waist, but the open buttons near his collar and sleeves folded up to his elbows dressed it down. He wore the Argent family crest on a black cord around his neck to mark himself a hunter. Beneath the thick leather of his belt, he hid away another, smaller blade—one of iron—just in case he couldn’t get to the one in his boot. In his pocket was a pouch of salt instead of mountain ash.

He didn’t bother informing his team how he adjusted his equipment.

_Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—_

_swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood_

_on the first four knuckles._

“You look good,” Lydia said from her seat on Stiles’ bed.

The last time he stared so intently at his reflection had been right after the tsuchigumo. Derek had been at his back, then, not Lydia. He’d thought he was undesirable, but Lydia tried to kiss him shortly after, and Derek actually _had_ kissed him. He thought about poetry, staring at himself. Derek knew it. Lydia didn’t. Stiles wondered if Derek still knew it, and hoped Lydia never would.

“Thanks,” he said, watching her through the mirror. He quirked his lips half-heartedly.

“Your hair is next,” she said, and Stiles hummed in agreement as she grabbed the small tub of styling cream from his dresser. She collected a sizable dollop on her fingertips, then fit herself between him and the mirror.

This close, Stiles could see the gentle shimmer of her eyeshadow, the meticulous sweep of mascara along her lashes. Her plush pout was pink and kiss-inviting, her cheeks rosy with a careful smear of blush. Standing so close, close enough to share breath, it was easy to wonder why he ever pushed her away. She spread product along her fingers, then carded them through his hair. Her nails scraped pleasantly against his scalp; and Stiles closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, tilting his head to help her style his hair, and help her touch him more.

He wanted it. He _needed_ it.

A careless look wasn’t difficult for Lydia to achieve. Stiles hardly did anything with his hair anyway, so locking that effortless look with some hair cream was quick. But Lydia didn’t pull away when she finished. No, she stayed there, where the cold glass of the mirror nearly brushed her bare shoulder blades, and Stiles’ warm chest nearly brushed her accentuated breasts. When she swallowed, her throat clicked, and she looked up at him through her fluttering lashes. Her gaze flicked between his eyes and his mouth, and he saw her watch his tongue when he licked his lips.

“Lydia,” he started, but his voice broke the spell, and she quickly pulled away.

“We should get ready to go,” she said, clipped and dismissive like he’d been with her that fateful night.

“Lydia,” he pleaded.

“What, Stiles?” _What more do you want? What more do you need? What more could you possibly desire that you haven’t already squandered?_

Exactly.

Lydia didn’t have to say it; Stiles heard it loud and clear.

He kept his empty apologies to himself, but said, “You really don’t have to come along tonight. I can handle the club myself.”

“You need back-up,” she stated.

“I really don’t,” he argued.

She sighed, rolling her eyes. “You’re not invincible. As okay as everyone is with pretending you are, you’re not.”

“There’s no reason for you to be in danger as well,” Stiles pressed.

“There’s no reason for you to be in danger _alone_ ,” she countered. Her face softened, her eyes a bit larger, a little glassier. Stiles wanted nothing more than to hold her until she no longer wore such a heart-wrenching expression. “I sense _death_ , remember? And something’s been off about you for _months_.”

Chewing his lip, Stiles dropped his gaze. Lydia wasn’t his to touch, the easy contact between them stilted in the aftermath of their almost-kiss. Stiles never imagined them as inevitable, but when reaching for her felt like sin, when he did nothing but lie to her, he realized how it could have been. Inevitable. Stiles _inevitably_ with Lydia Martin. “I’ll be fine,” he said uselessly.

She closed the distance between them with several, purposeful strides. Even in her heels, she had to lean up to kiss his cheek, and Stiles’ eyes burned beneath the tender gesture. “Come on, jailbait,” she said, toying with the short hair at the base of his skull. “Let’s hunt some sex demons.”

 

###

 

By far, the best part of the mission was his seamless fake ID. Provided by Chris, who knew a guy, who knew another guy, it was perfectly authentic and freshly minted Stiles a twenty-one year old; it even glittered correctly in the right light. Stiles was pretty sure he could get a passport with it, if he wanted. He had absolutely zero intention of ever returning it.

He presented it proudly to the bouncer, who’s dower expression reminded him a little too much of Derek’s perma-glower. But after a gruff affirmative, Stiles received his ID back and was allowed into the club.

It was _loud_.

Booming bass quickly numbed his eardrums and rattled his ribcage. Even his heart quivered in time to the beat. Flashing strobe lights made it hard to see through the darkness, and glowing, haphazardly streaked paint softened the lines of bodies, misshapen, undulating forms in the darkness. All he could smell was sweat and liquor—stale beer and too much perfume. And there, somewhere along the eastern-most wall, was the bar.

Stiles inched his way through the writhing, dancing masses with a shy smile and a placating raised hand. The amount of pressure and friction exerted in just his passing was enough to send his blood thundering. Smooth hips grinding, however briefly, against his dick. Strong hands grabbing, however quickly, at his ass. He wasn’t prepared. He was not at all even vaguely prepared. Reaching the bar was like reaching land after an eternity at sea.

The bartender, a pretty young woman, smirked at him. She couldn’t have been much older than him. “What’ll it be?” she asked, crimson lips breaking into a smile. She had strawberry-blonde hair to rival Lydia’s, seafoam eyes that twinkled like Derek’s never did, and a corset that dried Stiles’ mouth with a single, intentional lean of her body.

“I don’t care,” Stiles answered, sliding his ID across the bar top. He hoped his fingers didn’t look as shaky as they felt. It was too loud, too dark, and he was too vulnerable with his senses so bombarded. “Whatever’s strongest. Whatever you recommend.”

_Whatever will take the edge off._

Beaming, the bartender said, “I’ve got just the thing, sugar.” When she spun, her hair flared off her shoulders and neck like the skirt of a summer dress, and _spring_ wafted through Stiles’ sinuses strong enough to drown out the sweat and liquor. She stretched to reach a bottle on one of the higher shelves, the _Absinthe_ label enough to surprise Stiles. “One-forty-four,” she chirped as she turned to her patron, grinning. “Think you can handle it?”

Stiles laughed nervously, grateful he’d convinced Lydia to sit this one out. She’d surely tease him for his bumbling. “Maybe something a little tamer to start, yeah? The night’s still young.”

With an exaggerated pout Stiles had only ever seen in porn, she sighed and set the bottle on a lower shelf behind her. “I’ll save it for later, then.” She grabbed a bottle of amber liquor—it looked like rum, but her hand hid the label—and poured it into a double shot. Pushing it and small plastic cup of Coke in front of him, she said, “How about this?”

“What is it?” he asked, taking the shot glass.

“How you should start your night,” she purred.

Stiles took a breath. Liquor wasn’t novel to him, but he’d never imbibed beyond the safety of his home or trusted company. He’d keep pace with his old man, burning easily through bottles of Jack after things got a little too dangerous or they missed Claudia a little too much. This shouldn’t be any different. This _wasn’t_ any different. Stiles tossed back the drink.

The bartender watched his throat with barely concealed heat.

_Mark._

He blinked through the burn and set the glass down easy. He didn’t drink the Coke right away, but he eventually sipped it, and it did ease the burn in his throat.

“Good?” the she asked.

Nodding, Stiles said, “Perfect.”

“Another?”

“Sure. And open a tab for me?” He handed over his debit card. It was returned to him with another double. He lifted it in a small toast of thanks—the first shot to forget how Lydia worried about him, the second to forget how Derek ignored him. He took the shot. “I’ll be back,” he said, then nodded to the Absinthe. “Save some for me, yeah?” Then, he used his most charming smirk, pleased when her eyes darkened, and she licked her lips.

No one succumbed to Stiles’ meager charms—he was too skinny, too forward, too energetic. She was the succubus. He was sure of it. Stiles just had to find a way to get her alone; or let her try to get him alone. Whichever.

The only other time he’d felt so wanted was with Derek.

He was a bit buzzed and more than a bit melancholy. Seeing no reason to waste a perfectly good opportunity to _escape_ —he had no idea when the bartender would make a move—Stiles slid gracelessly from his seat, and somehow managed to make it safely onto the dance floor without tripping. He awkwardly brushed against only a handful of people, so he counted it as a win.

From there, it was easy to lose himself. The pounding beat resonated from his toes to his skull, drowning out everything that wasn’t the pulse of the club. Bodies pressed against him, and he swayed easily where he was pushed or pulled. If his hips were grabbed, he leaned into the dirty grind. If his flank was caressed, he arched his back. Partners came and went and came again, and Stiles didn’t discriminate; none of them were Derek or Lydia. A hot body was a hot body, really, and he danced in the sea of them.

He had his face against the neck of a pretty little thing, a woman with thick, dark hair that smelled like flowers, and mouthed at her neck. He was tispy enough to find profound transcendence in the lyrics of some trance song. Something about silent hearts, something about never being alone, something about forever; things he didn’t have time to find. Between one thought of longing and the next, a solid wall of muscle materialized from the ether of the dance floor, pressing close against his back. A hard cock pressed incessantly along the curve of his ass and—

_Wait, what?_

A firm hand clamped on his hip while another snaked around his chest to gently grasp the front of his throat. The Argent crest pressed into his neck, and— _fuck_ —the man rocked his hips hard enough against Stiles’ to stagger him. Stiles’ grabbed the wrist resting against his neck, and tilted his head back, his spine bent in a lascivious arch. Hot lips dragged up the back of his neck, and he felt a growl against his shoulder blades.

For a split second, a mere heartbeat, he wanted it to be Derek.

Stiles laughed, light and easy, feigning bravery.

Because there were two of them. Two sex demons.

“Find something you like?” Stiles asked, assuming his new dance partner could hear him over the music.

The demon’s tongue laved behind his ear, then he sucked a mark. Stiles shivered, a hitched moan caught in the back of his throat. Involuntarily, he pushed back against the demon, propriety lost somewhere in the onslaught of sensation

“Maybe,” the demon said, breathing hot against Stiles’ ear. “Let me buy you a drink?”

He tried not to stammer when he said, “Hell yeah.”

Strong fingers slotted easily into the spaces between his own, and Stiles tried to exert a cool excitement—willing, but not eager—as the demon him lead from the dance floor via possessive grip. Bodies moved aside like the parting of a Biblical sea. Stiles followed, a little heady, and traced the lines of the demon’s back through the taught shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. He just about matched Stiles in height, but carried more muscle, was built sturdier, and aside from the sinful way his clothes hugged his body, he was plainly dressed—dark jeans and a pale shirt.

He couldn’t see his face—and that worried Stiles. The bestiary hinted at enough psychic magic to glean a target’s deepest desires, and he feared the incubus would wear Derek’s sharp, stern expression.

They plowed through the idling patrons lingering near the bar and found two seats vacant as if prepared just for them.

In the steadier light—the bar’s LEDs pulsed in time to the music, but was in no way as erratic as the club itself—Stiles finally saw his partner’s face, the etched edge of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheeks. He didn’t look like Derek, not really, but it was enough to realize Derek might have given him a complex, or worse: a _type_. The guy’s eyes were a deep viridian, discernable despite the lasers and strobes, and his dark hair a styled obsidian swath with a few strands dusting his forehead. He watched Stiles with quietly emanating confidence, experience, and his cologne was spicy.

It was a travesty for Stiles to only ever have the attention of such a beautiful man when demonic forces were involved.

The demon—he had to be an incubus, because no, Stiles was _not that guy_. Stiles was not a guy deemed worthy of the interest of the gorgeous, the stunning, the physical elite of humanity. The demon slid his hand across the bar and folded it over Stiles’, his thumb leaving a scorching path long the bone of Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles forced a small, coy smile to his lips. He dropped his chin in faux shyness, and bit the corner of his lip. He didn’t have to feign the stampede of his pulse—the guy hit all the right notes to remind him of Derek without _reminding him of Derek._ “How about that drink?” he asked.

The demon chuckled, then waved down the bartender; the same bartender from earlier, the one who called Stiles _sugar_ and helped him start his night. Of the entire bar staff, his partner flagged down _her_ , specifically. The glance they shared was too much like how he and Lydia sometimes communicated in meetings—silent, deeply connected, of the same mind. It wasn’t a coincidence, and this situation was spiraling out of Stiles’ control alarmingly fast.

“I like you,” the demon said, and Christ, his voice was melodic. Slow and rolling, it cut through the overwhelming din of the club and dug hooks into the base of Stiles’ skull. With every word, the voice shivered down his spine to pool, heavy and pleasant, at the base his suddenly throbbing dick. “You’re cute. You’re bold. I might want to keep you.”

It was ominous, sure, but it didn’t sound so bad. Not when there was miraculously enough blood in his body to flush his cheeks _and_ make his dick ache; and really, having it rush in opposite directions was heady.

“I think you like me, too,” the demon continued. “I don’t think you’d mind being kept.” Then he smiled, and all of Stiles’ mental defenses collapsed—he felt them—poof, gone. “At least, for a little while.”

Stiles should be worried. Like an out of body experience, Stiles knew this was bad. This had danger written all over it in neon lights brighter than the club’s. But the demon wasn’t wrong: Stiles _did_ want to be kept.

He had to center himself, but each stroke of the demon’s thumb against his wrist chipped away a little more of his resolve. Every word he uttered brought Stiles that much closer to succumbing. _Pheromones_ , Stiles recited. _Psychic energies_. He gave the demon everything, willingly or not, but it was a knife’s edge of difference between luring his prey and becoming prey.

The bartender stood beside them. She poured a drink—just one—from the Absinthe bottle she tried to sell Stiles earlier. Green, like sno-cone syrup, she poured it over a sugar cube held precariously in a spoon over the glass. Stiles had no idea what was really in the bottle. He had no idea if what looked like a sugar cube was actually as innocuous as it appeared. Nothing ever felt as much like an Obvious Bad Decision—not selling his soul, not kissing Derek, not rejecting Lydia—as this did.

Taking the drink from the bartender, the guy inched it front of Stiles with a push of his fingertips. He raised an eyebrow and quirked his lips like a question, like an offer.

“Call me naïve,” Stiles said, his uncertainty no longer an act, “but how am I supposed to drink this? Do I shoot it? Do I sip it? I, um…I’ve never had this before.”

“Do you enjoy new experiences?” the guy asked, and fuck, was that an accent curling the edges of his words? Stiles didn’t know, couldn’t really tell, but it was so soothing; a balm to his fraying nerves.

Stiles tried for casual when he said, “I do. Try to, you know, stay open to as many things as possible.” He shrugged, then took the glass with his free hand and brought it to his lips. It smelled like flowers and sugar. Sweet and smooth, it went down easy when Stiles drank it. He set the half-empty glass on the bar, and laughed through the lightheadedness. It didn’t feel like poison, no more than alcohol normally did, anyway. But it was sweeter than anything he’d had straight from a bottle, and it left an itch like craving on the back of his tongue.

“Then perhaps we should make this a night of many firsts,” the guy said. He ordered another drink. “So let’s make sure you’ll have fun, yes?”

“Hot guy liquoring me up? Can’t imagine how I _wouldn’t_ have fun,” Stiles laughed. He finished his first drink and quickly got to work on the second, despite the sinking feeling they were laced.

The guy touched him freely. A caress here, a brush there, little things to test Stiles’ willingness; and Stiles lit up like a rigged carnival machine the guy knew all the tricks to. Bells and whistles rang through his skull in increasingly amplified echoes, crushing everything around him down to the singularity of their scant skin-to-skin contact. Throat dry, Stiles’ breath fluttered in his lungs. How desperate was he to be ratcheted to such heights so quickly? Even with Derek, things had been slower, easier—a roller coaster rush instead of free-fall thrill. Safer.

“You’re eager,” the guy said. He seemed surprised, but hid it with a gentle fondness when he stroked Stiles’ cheek. Stiles pressed further against his palm. “I like it.”

Stiles liked it, too. Christ, did he like it.

Setting the second empty glass down on the bar top, Stiles slid from his seat and fit easily between the guy’s accommodatingly spread legs. He ran his hands from his knees up his thighs, digging his thumbs suggestively along the inseam of his jeans. “Dance with me?”

“I have something better in mind,” the guy said. “If you’re agreeable.”

Despite the grounding grip he had on the guy’s thighs, balance was difficult and focusing his eyes even more so. Stiles blinked hard to correct his vision, but it only made it worse. “What did you have in mind?” His tongue was heavy, unfamiliar, in his mouth, numb like from chewing ice.

“First,” the guy said, wrapping his hands around Stiles’ wrists, “I’d like to kiss you.”

Stiles smiled, a pinch of his lip caught between his teeth. “Yeah, okay.”

He swayed forward, and the guy met him half-way, their lips sealing in uncanny perfection. As if Stiles somehow telegraphed how he wanted to be kissed directly to the guy, fingertips brushed the edge of his jaw, then grabbed him and tilted his head, pressing just a little harder. The tip of his tongue slid warm and wet across Stiles’ bottom lip, and when he sucked a hungry breath, the guy leaned forward a little more to lick into his mouth.

The guy slowly pulled away with a parting nip at Stiles’ tender bottom lip. “Now,” he continued, completely ambivalent to Stiles’ dazed state, “I’d like to take you somewhere a little more private.”

“Yes,” Stiles sighed. “Yes, that. Very much that. All of that.”

Grinning and pleased, the guy laced his fingers with Stiles’. When he brought their joined hands to his lips, his breath rolled warmly across Stiles’ knuckles, his words small kisses. “I’m parked out back.”

“Oh my God, what is your _name_?” Stiles asked wondrously, and he sounded like a freshly-saved, love-struck damsel even to his own ears. But he had to _know_. Fuck, he needed to know the name he’d moan so he wouldn’t say the most accessible one on his tongue: Derek.

“Ross,” the guy answered, his grin utterly amused. “And you?”

“Stiles,” he said.

“Come then, Stiles.” When he stood, he pressed flush against Stiles for a beat, and Stiles felt the hard plains of his body, could only imagine how it would feel if Ross put some force behind it. Keeping their hands clasped, Ross led Stiles through the club—just like from the dance floor to the bar, the writhing, sweaty club-goers parted to clear a path for them.

Stiles chanced a glance over his shoulder. The bartender watched them leave with something _sinister_ in the curl of her smile.

That’s right. Demons. Sex demons.

Stiles wasn’t supposed to forget about Derek or Lydia with a shot or a hook-up. He was supposed to hunt demons. He’d nearly forgotten it in the swirl of Ross’ seduction. Disconnected from Lydia, missing Derek like a lost limb, estranged from everyone he loved, Ross was easy. To feel wanted was easy. But Stiles wasn’t allowed to feel wanted—not on a hunt.

A light rain’s wet chill bit Stiles’ skin through his clothes, shivering now that he was away from the hot masses in the club. His sweat went icy, swaths of damp bringing clarity with their shock.

As soon as the back door slammed shut, Ross shoved Stiles against the brick exterior. He hit hard, knew he’d have bruises along his shoulder blades the next morning even as the air rushed from his lungs. But then Ross pressed against him, rough and crushing. He forced a thigh between Stiles’ knees and devoured his mouth more viciously than his previous kisses had foreshadowed. Ross’ hand twisted tight in the artwork Lydia had made of Stiles’ hair, and Stiles’ answering whine was muffled by Ross’s mouth.

Stiles gasped when Ross yanked his head back by his hair and laved lazily down his neck, sucking biting kisses, pinches welting even as Ross’ tongue gentled against them. With his free hand, Ross pulled Stiles’ shirt from where it was tucked into his pants, then methodically undid the buttons one by one. Stiles tugged at Ross’ shirt until he could get his hands under the material, raking blunt fingernails down his flanks to grasp desperately at his belt loops. Arching his back, he shoved his hips ruthlessly against Ross’, the friction and pressure of Ross’ rolling grind quickly devolving into shameless, animalistic rutting at Stiles’ behest.

It felt like punishment. It felt like retribution. It felt like what Stiles deserved.

“So good,” Ross purred, sliding up the length of Stiles’ body. He breathed hot along Stiles’ neck, murmured the words into Stiles’ ear until he trembled. “So hungry. I’ll give you what you need, sweet thing.”

“Want it,” Stiles begged, mouth no longer his own. He heaved a shuddering sigh when Ross pinned his wrist to the wall beside his head, the thigh between his legs keeping most of his weight against the bricks instead of on his feet. With his free hand, he grabbed Ross by the back of the neck and yanked him into a kiss.

Ross didn’t stay where Stiles bade him for very long, though Stiles’ hand in his hair offered encouraging little pets. Soon, he unbuckled Stiles’ belt and popped open the button of his fly, while dragging his lips down the side of Stiles’ neck and along his clavicle. “Good,” he mumbled between kisses, inching his hand into Stiles pants. He sucked hard at his collar bone, and Stiles whimpered. “Very good.”

When Ross suddenly bit him, Stiles’ body went taut, tight, trembling like an electrical current arced through him, then pliant and subdued. Ross’ blunt human teeth turned into something that pierced flesh and blood slid down Stiles’ chest to stain his undershirt.

The bestiary made no mention of this, this _biting_ , or the complete surrender following it. Between his sharp teeth, Ross’ tongue laved smoothly, numbing the wound. Beneath the numbness, sparks of pleasure crackled down the length of Stiles’ spine, interrupting control of his limbs like the static between radio stations. For a few precious seconds, all Stiles could do was let his head fall back against the wall and breathe. He fast fell prisoner in his own body, subdued into compliance by some…thing. The drinks, demonic power, his own self-loathing—he didn’t know. He didn’t particularly care.

He reached behind his back, fingers painfully inching into the tight space between his body and the wall, skin scraping raw on the bricks. He needed his knife. He needed the iron blade tucked under his belt. He had to—

Ross’ hand disappeared from his pants and slammed Stiles’ elbow into the wall. The sharp blow sent pins and needles down the length of Stiles’ arm, tingling all the way to his fingertips. He yelped, then offered a shaking, placating, “Ross, please…”

“I don’t think so, little hunter,” Ross purred, and when he lifted his face from Stiles’ chest, his mouth and chin were bloody, his eyes a mercurial, swirling grey.

Stiles smirked. “I was wondering when you’d mention it.”

“Calm yourself,” Ross rumbled, low and smooth. Stiles limbs grew heavy with the command. “This can be very painless if you give yourself over to it.”

“Pass.” Stiles slammed his head into Ross’ hard and saw stars. Ross stumbled back, unhurt but startled, and it was just enough for Stiles to finally reach the knife in his belt. When the incubus lunged forward with a snarl, Stiles flung the knife out, iron blade slicing deep and clean across Ross’ face.

Ross clamped clawed hands over his gushing wound, and Stiles stumbled away from the wall, dizzy and heavy-footed. But it took more than a petty knife to subdue a demon, and Ross recovered quickly despite his injury. When Stiles swiped a second time, he no longer had the element of surprise, and Ross easily ducked beneath the striking arc. He jabbed his claws into Stiles’ chest wound and growled a vicious, “On your knees,” Stiles was helpless to fight. His voice resonated in Stiles’ very mind the way Derek’s growl-barks did, ominous and terrifying. Demonic.

Stiles crashed to the pavement, dazed, obedient with his hands on his thighs.

“Drop the knife.”

Stiles did. It slipped from his grasp and clattered loudly onto the pavement beside him.

“You are such a beautiful thing, little hunter,” Ross murmured, reverent. “So pretty in your desperate thirst for love. For this, I will grant you a mercy and spare you pain, despite your impudence.”

With a tired breath, Stiles’ shoulders sagged, but he smirked up at Ross, defiant. Derek would soon appear from the ether and save his hide. He always did, and always would. If Stiles believed nothing else about Derek, it was the fulfillment of the contract. Even as his energy waned, and Ross leaned over him; even as Ross cupped his jaw with his bloody, clawed hand and tiled his head up; even as Ross kissed him with his toxic mouth, dripping poison down his throat, Stiles had one point of clarity. It was the only grain of truth he knew down to the marrow of his bones: Derek would come.

It was the sole reason he was cognizant enough to know when Derek did finally arrive.

The hellhound tore open the shadows in the alley, then stepped through with a roll of his shoulders and grim set to his jaw. “Rosier.”

Ross—Rosier, apparently—pulled away from Stiles’ mouth, but kept his hand in his chest. “Ah, Derek. Interesting to find you here. I wasn’t sure what he smelled of, but it’s so obviously you, I feel rather stupid.” He smirked, his jagged teeth stained crimson with Stiles’ blood. “Here to drag him down? I’m afraid I’ve already staked a claim.”

Beside Derek’s beauty, Rosier’s melted away for Stiles; it let him regain a little more of his lost wits, or maybe it was sheer relief flooding his system.

“Let him go.”

With a laugh, Rosier twisted his hand, and Stiles whimpered, suddenly more keenly aware of pain than pleasure. Stiles clung to Rosier’s wrist to mitigate its movement, but the demon didn’t notice or care. “Really, Derek,” Rosier tutted. “And why should I do that? He’s a hunter, and a particularly delicious one at that.”

“Because I asked you politely,” Derek said. “And I only do that once.” He stood just within Stiles’ sight, hands casually resting in his jacket pockets. How long he’d remain casual, Stiles couldn’t guess—Derek looked _murderous_.

Rosier watched Derek, challengingly, as he clenched his fingers in Stiles’ chest, drawing out another pained moan from Stiles’ bloody lips. Stiles heaved a few gasping breaths and involuntary tears tracked his face; he swore the demon’s claws skittered across the surface of his heart, but he couldn’t be sure.

The incubus did it again.

Stiles choked on Derek’s name, unable to tear his gaze from him. “Der—”

Derek’s jaw twitched, but his stride was controlled as he crossed the alley.

“You can have his soul when I’m—” Rosier stopped suddenly and turned to Stiles with a curiously amused expression, eyebrows high, blinking owlishly. “Oh. Is that so?” Then he laughed, its sound cold and cruel. “You have peculiar tastes, little hunter. Is this the reason a hellhound comes for you?” He crouched in front of Stiles, lips pursed in exaggerated concentration. With his free hand, he combed back Stiles’ sweaty hair almost tenderly—Stiles bobbed precariously on the verge of going under his influence again. “I can feel the stutter of your heart when you look at him, and I can taste the norepinephrine in your blood. Dopamine smells so sweet.” He hummed, then murmured softly, “You suffer with longing and it is so beautiful. I will end it for you swiftly, sweet hunter.” After pushing himself to his feet, he shoved his claws a little deeper into the bite wound.

Stiles swayed, and his hands fell to his lap.

Derek growled, then sprinted the last few yards separating them. And when Rosier turned to meet the hound’s impending attack, Stiles rallied the last of his strength and snatched his knife from the ground beside him. He seized the incubus’ wrist and ripped its claw from his chest while severing the flexor tendons with a brutal slash of the blade. Derek struck within microseconds of Stiles, raking Rosier’s face with his own, vicious claws. It gave Stiles the precious moment he needed to scramble beyond the incubus’ reach. Only a step or two, but he was no longer vulnerable on his knees.

So close, Rosier hissed and buried his uninjured, clawed hand deep in Derek’s chest. For one impossible heartbeat, Derek froze, but then his eyes flared their brilliant scarlet and he grabbed the incubus’ wrist. He crushed it like he had the basilisk youngling, then ripped the claws from where they dug into him and grabbed the incubus by the throat, his own claws pressing dangerously into the flesh of his neck.

“You’re the same,” Rosier laughed, choking in Derek’s grip. “You’re the same—protecting this hunter, attacking your own. Star-crossed lovers—” Derek crushed his throat before he could say more, but thick, black smoke billowed from Rosier’s mouth like a broken fire hydrant. It was fast, but Derek was faster, grabbing the smoke as if it were some tangible thing and cramming it back into the incubus’ mouth with his claws for grip.

Stiles was too enthralled with the battle to hear the club door open and shut, despite its ringing slam. He was too consumed parsing Rosier’s words and the hidden meanings of Derek’s behavior—why he waited so long to appear, why he attempted to negotiate with the incubus—to realize they were no longer alone in the alley. He realized soon enough, however, when a cold, clawed hand wrapped around his throat and _squeezed_. “Der…!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Derek,” the woman said. She yanked hard where she held Stiles, one arm pinning his weapon-wielding arm to his torso while the other clutched his throat. It hurt to swallow, but he remained still in his captor’s hold. He recognized her voice, the same honeyed tone that called him _sugar_. The fucking bartender.

Derek halted his assault on Rosier, though he kept one hand clamped firmly over the incubus’ mouth and held him by the neck to keep him subdued. “Ashtaroth,” Derek hummed. “I didn’t think you were stupid enough to work in pairs.” When Rosier struggled, Derek snarled and sunk his claws deeper, forcing him to his knees.

Ashtaroth hummed, dismissive, but wrenched Stiles to the side in some display of his vulnerability. He adjusted his grip on his knife. “Let my brother go, or your pet bleeds out in the street.”

Derek paused, and fleetingly met Stiles’ gaze—it was the first time he initiated eye-contact in weeks, and Stiles was so relieved he nearly sobbed. The hound weighed his options, as if perhaps he didn’t want Stiles hurt further. Maybe Stiles had been hurt enough—he sure felt like it, and he certainly wanted Derek to care. But no, there was a job to be done, and Stiles’ well-being was secondary to the mission; Derek could always heal his wounds.

Stiles hoped Derek could still read his emotions, prayed the connection was still intact despite how numb Stiles had become to it in the weeks since Derek’s silence. He was confident he’d survive. The succubus’ grip was sharp, yes, but it wasn’t particularly strong, nowhere near as strong as Rosier’s. And he still had another weapon on hand, one he could use to distraction and escape. Carefully, Stiles inched his fingers into his pocket, for the salt. Derek didn’t need to negotiate for Stiles’ sake. Stiles would be fine. Mostly.

A few more tense heartbeats passed, time Stiles used to open the pouch in his pocket, while Derek and the succubus waited each other out. He told himself Derek had understood him, that Derek was stalling specifically to buy him that handful of moments. It bolstered his confidence.

And once Stiles had his sweaty, bloody hand coated with salt, Derek opened his jaws wide and sank his fangs into Rosier’s exposed, vulnerable throat. Like an animal going for the kill, Derek ripped and tore, rending, destroying. Rosier fell to the ground, lifeless, and the succubus’ anguished scream deafened Stiles. Before she could tear his throat open in turn, however, he twisted enough to slash his knife through the tendons of her elbow—the claws against his throat fell away limply, but that wasn’t enough. No, Stiles shoved his salty fingers in the wound, jamming the granules deep before lurching out of her grasp. The claws of her other hand raked his back, but he was out of her reach and stumbled toward Derek.

Derek caught him with an arm around his waist. “You’re so fucking reckless,” he breathed, soft, and Stiles thought he sounded relieved. The moment was the eye of the storm, because as soon as Derek eased Stiles behind him and to safety, the succubus attacked.

Stiles staggered backward, out of the crossfire, and hit the opposite wall of the alley. Adrenaline only purged so much of the incubus’ poison, and whatever Rosier’ forced down his gullet weighed his limbs and fuzzed the edges of his thoughts. He was still _pliant_ to a great extent, especially in the wake of his minor feats of heroism, and slid uselessly to the ground.

The succubus, wild with her anger and grief, was uncoordinated, and though Derek had simmering rage of his own, his movements were more controlled, more premeditated. Her slashes were erratic where Derek struck with precision. Blood splattered like careless paint across the pavement and filled the alley with the heavy, clinging scent of iron. But soon enough, Derek rammed a clawed hand through the succubus’ sternum, and she went prone when he lifted her off the ground.

“Such a disgrace,” she sputtered, spitting blood with her venom. “Led to temptation by a hunter.” She smiled then, weak and condescending; that’s when Stiles noticed her claws buried deep in the back of Derek’s neck. “Star-crossed lovers, indeed.” Her breath hitched when Derek twisted his hand. “How long until Peter discovers your little secret? Do you think he’ll let you have this? Do you think anyone would?”

Stiles heard Derek’s soft growls, a rumble on every exhale, even across the alley. His muscles trembled, as if the succubus had him in some thrall he couldn’t shake.

“Oh,” the succubus purred. “For all your posturing, you _have_ been on the rack recently. Was it because of him?”

“Hey, bitch!” Stiles called, emboldened by her accusations. He wasn’t a pet—he was a hunter, and he was a fucking clever one. And regardless of whatever was going on between them, Stiles wouldn’t stand by while Derek suffered. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—_ ”

She flinched and recoiled, trembled where Derek still held her, though her claws remained in the hound’s flesh. Derek, however, seemed unaffected by the incantation. It was curious, but it was enough to spur Stiles onward, his voice a little louder. “ _—omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio—_ ”

Her thrashing grew more violent, and the same smoke that spilled from Rosier’s mouth started seeping from hers. Derek’s movements appeared a bit freer, less restrained, but it wasn’t enough for him to finish her. The claws in his neck spasmed, and he gave a soft grunt through the pain, but he continued bucking her hold on him.

Stiles offered the only help he could: “ _—omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te._ ”

Derek growled and the sound quickly exploded into a roar.

“ _Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare._ ” Just before Stiles launched himself into the next verse, a loud crack echoed through the alley, loud enough to silence him.

The succubus’ head hung awkwardly from her shoulders, yanked back by Derek’s ruthless grip in her strawberry-blond hair. Her seafoam eyes stared at Stiles vacantly, black smoke rising gently from her parted lips, and Stiles shuttered when his imagination unhelpfully supplied an image of Lydia in a similar position. He had just enough time for his stomach to drop before Derek clamped his jaws around her throat and ripped. The smoke faded, and her body slipped from Derek’s grasp, landing in a crumpled heap on the pavement.

Derek wasted no time in turning away from the carnage to approach Stiles where he sat trembling against the far wall of the alley. He took a knee at Stiles’ side and cupped his face with both of his bloody, clawless hands. He seemed particularly broody as he intently studied Stiles’ face, and the scrutiny made Stiles flush ruddy. It was like Derek finally _saw him_ instead of _seeing through him_.

As Stiles opened his mouth to speak, Derek looked away and focused on the bloody hole in Stiles’ chest—a ring of shredded, perforated flesh. He covered the wound with his palm and eased careful pressure over it and it was the gentlest Derek had been with him in weeks. When the warmth of Derek’s healing scorched beneath his skin, Stiles bit his lip to stifle a moan.

Crickets filled the silence settling between them, and Stiles fought the characteristic drowsiness that came with Derek’s healing. “Derek—”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek said, tired.

_Shut up, Stiles._

Just like when he shivered in a puddle of goop constituting fae entrails.

Just like when he cradled his changling-mangled arm against his chest.

Just like when he puked black tar from the tainted touch of the inferi.

_Shut up, Stiles._

This time, when his tongue felt heavy, it wasn’t worrisome. This plunge into darkness was a familiar one. “Are you okay?” he asked. He awkwardly gripped Derek’s wrist, where the hellhound’s palm rested just above his heart, with a heavy hand.

Derek remained silent.

“I hope you’re okay,” Stiles sighed. “I want you to be okay.”

The hellhound looked up from his work, his brows creased in confusion, but then Stiles’ vision went black.

Stiles would never get used to waking up alone, no matter how often it happened. But he didn’t have time to fumble through his muddled thoughts or relearn how to work his limbs after hellhound healing. Sirens screamed in the distance, and there were two maimed, bloody corpses within twenty feet of him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck!” He launched himself to his feet, and stumbled a few steps before he found his footing. He scanned the area quickly, but there was too much blood, too much evidence. There was too much to tie him to the scene and possibly a pair of murders. “God damn it, Derek.”

He fled the scene.

 

###

 

Covering up his involvement with the sex demons was a lot easier than Stiles imagined. Mostly, he just displayed the fear typically gnawing the edges of his thoughts—he went pale and trembled. He stuttered when he told his dad and Chris what happened. They still didn’t believe in demons, but they let him go and handled the rest.

The vessels Rosier and Ashtaroth occupied were, in fact, missing persons reported decades prior. Authorities—specifically Agent McCall—had no explanation for why they hadn’t aged a day since their disappearance, but their DNA matched. Missing persons evolved into a case even more mysterious, because coroner’s reports pointed towards both a human and an animal attacker. When pressed for information—because Agent McCall still clung to his absurd theories and strict observation of their group—Scott spitefully suggested a werewolf assailant. McCall left them alone for a while after that.

When Stiles shied away from the comfort his friends offered, they didn’t press him. He saw their faces twisted and agonized, echoes of screams he’d never heard drowning out his thoughts. A hallucination, he knew—probably some latent post-traumatic stress—but it still shook him. His memories haunted him enough; he didn’t want their presence to haunt him, too. Lydia, however, wore a particularly disappointed expression when rejected, but every time Stiles looked at her, he only saw her dead in Derek’s arms.

It didn’t stop there, though. Even walking down the school hallways, the faces of random students morphed into horrific visions, stretched beyond recognition and sporting needle-like fangs and hollowed eyes. The first few times Stiles jumped, Scott commented on the acrid notes in his scent, his rabbiting heartbeat. Lydia just looked at him sympathetically before hugging him.

Hallucinations followed him everywhere: school, mundane errands, even at home. Adrenaline kept him from eating and nightmares kept him from sleeping. After his father’s face shifted right before his eyes, right in the middle of a conversation, his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The only cause Stiles could think of was whatever poison Rosier forced into his body through his bite and kiss.

He felt cursed.

Stiles holed himself in his bedroom when he reached his breaking point.

“Derek?” he called carefully. He sat in darkness late at night in the middle of his bed, legs crossed and chin resting against his folded hands. Stiles never realized how much calling for Derek felt like praying to an absent or false god. “Derek, please. I…something’s happening to me. I don’t…I don’t know what it is and I—I need you. I need you to tell me what’s going on. I need you to…I need you to _fix it_. Please, Derek.” He sighed, shaky and wet. “I know it’s all in my head. I know none of it is real. But I can’t focus. I can’t shake it. These visions…they aren’t going away. It’s been days. Help me. _Please_.”

Derek never showed.

 

###

 

Everyone stopped fussing over him when he finally relented and let Melissa slip him some sedatives. In fact, when they weren’t sporting countenances of horror, his friends actually smiled at him more. The disappointment seemed to fade from their eyes when Stiles took care of himself in acceptable and appropriate ways.

 _Let them believe_ , he figured.

The pills put him to sleep, sure, but they also prevented him from waking during his nightmares. Instead of startling awake, he endured whatever fuckery his damaged subconscious conjured until the medication ran its course. He _slept_ , but he never _rested_. In many ways, it was worse than the insomnia.

Days turned into weeks, and no matter how often he called for Derek, the hellhound never appeared. Sometimes Stiles stood in the light and traced the wispy edges of his shadow; it reminded him Derek couldn’t abandon him entirely.

The bathroom filled with steam as he filled the tub. Like a small waterfall, its thunder soothed the unravelling edges of his sanity. It tramped it down and kept the threads from further fraying, at least for a little while. Locking himself away and using the shower or tub to drown out the static of his thoughts wasn’t a new coping strategy—he did it often as a boy right after his mother died. It let him grieve in peace, or find a breath of solitude away from his dad’s heartbreakingly sad eyes.

This time Stiles didn’t seek solitude.

He sat on the edge of the tub in his underwear and watched the open faucet.

Derek looked rough since their fight, pale and drawn, red smears like bruises beneath his seafoam eyes. He seemed weaker, too, somehow—like he wasn’t running at peak performance. Stiles first noticed it when the manticore threw him around like a ragdoll, and with every subsequent battle, Derek looked as drained as Stiles felt. He hoped, for a while, that the distance between them affected Derek the way it affected Stiles. Could a demon suffer heartache? Did Derek ever feel for Stiles enough to have heartache? It felt like a break-up, and Stiles mourned it like one.

It kept him up at night.

But then…with Rosier…

_“You’re the same—protecting this hunter, attacking your own. Star-crossed lovers—”_

Stiles stuck his hand under the tub faucet to check the water’s temperature. Hot, the kind that made his skin go numb for a split second before the burn set in, and that was fine. He plugged the drain.

And Ashteroth. She called him Derek’s pet. _“Led to temptation by a hunter,”_ she’d said. _“How long until Peter discovers your little secret? Do you think he’ll let you have this? Do you think anyone would?”_ Stiles shivered as memories of her voice slithered across his skin.

It was weird how he remembered their names.

_“For all your posturing, you have been on the rack recently. Was it because of him?”_

Were their accusations true, or just some mind-fuck to throw him off-kilter? And if it was a mind-fuck, why did Derek seem just as much a victim to it as Stiles was?

Knowing Derek would save him wasn’t his only bone-deep truth.

In the cold silence of Derek’s absence, Stiles discovered another: it wasn’t that Derek Hale and Derek the Hellhound were the same person upset him, not really. Even while hunting a manticore, Stiles knew that.  What upset him was how Derek the Hellhound, ultimately, gave him what he’d always wanted: Derek Hale. They were the same person divided by a line called Time in Hell.

Fire. So much fire.

The boy who gave him _Crush_ didn’t deserve it, couldn’t imagine any circumstance where he would. If anything, how Derek was a demon capable of compassion proved it. Neither the Pit nor the rack could burn the goodness out of him, and Stiles was heartbroken to know it. It hurt knowing what happened to the boy he met at the station, even more than learning he’d died, and he lashed out at the one person who would never deserve it.

He loved Derek.

Stiles loved him for _Crush_.

Stiles loved him for saving his dad.

Stiles loved him for…everything, really.

And maybe, if what Rosier and Ashteroth said was true, Derek loved him, too.

Wouldn’t that be something?

“I hope you can feel this, you bastard,” Stiles murmured, rubbing absently at his solar plexus. “I hope you fucking know.”

He turned the faucet off when the tub was filled. Shivering despite the steam, he braced unsteady hands on the edges of the tub and eased into the hot water. It burned, his skin pinking angrily, but with a controlled exhale, he adjusted. He needed all the warmth he could get.

Stiles slid the razor blade from where it sat ominously on edge of the tub and held it carefully. Its edge glittered within his dripping hand, fresh from the package. His heart pounded, and his ears rang with unanticipated adrenaline rush.

He didn’t want to die; self-preservation was a hard habit to break. However, he suffered from hallucinations that showed no sign of stopping, and his only resource was stubbornly unavailable. His inability to eat or sleep, how impossible it was for him to focus made him a liability his team couldn’t afford.

Per his deal with Peter, Derek can’t let him die, but he came closer and closer to it with each subsequent battle. Resentment and spite were bitter tastes familiar to Stiles’ tongue, so he understood. If nothing else, Stiles learned even hellhounds could be hurt—he’d managed it with his cruel words alone. He didn’t expect Derek to appear immediately, but hoped it would be sometime before he lost consciousness.

There was no way to know if suicide voided the terms of his contract with Peter, so he had a note written just in case Derek wouldn’t save him. Stiles already exhibited every symptom warranting a suicide watch, so the message was vague, typical. The only genuine sentiments were found in how much he loved his friends, his family, how proud he was of them, and how sorry he was to hurt them. It wasn’t much, he knew, but it was all he could offer. The pages of his parting letter sat neatly folded on the bathroom counter beside his toothbrush.

If Derek saved him, Derek would be there to push for a cure for his hallucinations.

If Derek didn’t save him, Stiles at least did his team a service by eliminating the liability he’d become.

At peace with either outcome, Stiles pressed the blade of the razor into the skin of his wrist about two inches below the heel of his palm. Flexing his hand nervously, he took a breath and dragged it down the length of his arm. Quick and controlled, his skin split open smoothly, his blood a bright red stream following paths of water to his elbow. What dripped into the bath disbursed like ink. Before he could reconsider—because his heart hammered against his ribcage and every fiber of his being screamed for self-preservation—he passed the razor between his hands and dragged it along the length of his other arm. He set the blade on the edge of the tub and slid deeper into the water, his wounded arms submerged at his sides.

What surprised him most, beyond the sheer amount of blood gushing from his arms, was how little it hurt. An initial sting for the wound, another when dunking them into the hot water; otherwise it was…easy. Much easier than anything else he’d endured.

The water was so very warm, and the bathroom so very quiet. The dripping faucet plunked every now and again, and Stiles counted them. They tapered off somewhere around twenty-one, and he was sleepy.

Stiles closed his eyes, licked his lips, and imagined Derek’s kiss. The first one they shared, when Derek offered himself as some vehicle for Stiles’ pleasure and Stiles negotiated a kiss instead. The soft, plush flesh of his lips and their warmth. The gentle urgency of his tongue. How he tilted Stiles’ face just so, how he pressed for more—how they both seemed surprised by how much they enjoyed it, enjoyed each other.

It was a nice thought. Almost as nice as the night Derek slid into bed beside him and held him until he fell asleep. Because sleep had always been a fleeting state, the weight of Derek’s arm around his waist had been poignantly pleasant, his steady breaths ruffling Stiles’ hair. If he tried hard enough, he could almost feel Derek’s warmth. If he tried hard enough, he could almost hear his name in Derek’s voice.

“You’re cutting it real close, Der,” he breathed into the air.

Stiles slid a little more into the water and blew some bubbles with sigh. When his eyelids fluttered, he didn’t fight their weight, how hard they were to keep open. He only had his warped reflection in the faucet to look at anyway. That and slowly darkening tub water. Neither was appealing, so he found no harm in submitting to the fatigue sinking into his bones.

… _so it’s summer, so it’s suicide,_

_so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool._

As he slipped into the fog, a sudden breeze prickled his damp skin.

“Stiles?!”

_Derek!_

Stiles just barely managed to crack his eyes open, bleary and aching, but he couldn’t do much more. Exhaustion had settled too far, twisting his marrow into lead dragging him ever deeper into the bath. Derek’s form was a vague, dark shape with flashing red eyes, but Stiles had memorized Derek’s appearance ages ago—he knew the supple leather of his jacket, the pleasant scrape of his stubble, the downy softness of his hair. Stiles knew. Stiles remembered.

Derek’s hand pressed warm and urgent against Stiles’ cold cheek, and he plunged the other into the tub to wrap around him and pull him from the water. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, trembling, and barely audible over the water dripping back into the tub. Derek sucked a wracked breath, and Stiles had never heard him sound so scared.

“Oh my God, Stiles, what have you done? What have you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, pulling lines from [Little Beast](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/) from _Crush_ by Richard Siken, which I managed to find online! :D
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek reconcile.

“…iles!”

The fog thinned, and his eyelids weren’t quite as heavy. Fragments of thought strung themselves together into things more coherent than feelings and half-memories. Bright shapes and silhouettes cut through the darkness, gaining glaring clarity fast enough to hurt. Stiles’ groaned, and while his head still felt stuffed with cotton, his hearing returned less painfully than his sight, and he heard his name. Over and over, he heard it: a whisper, a mantra.

Water sloshed, the movement causing it hurried and overwhelming. Something wet touched his face, dampened his hair as it moved through it.

“Stiles? Can you hear me?” A forced breath. “Come on, answer me. Please.”

“…Der’k?”

His meager vision went dark, but his damp cheek pressed against a fold of supple leather, and he felt the cold, rough bite of a zipper. Beyond that, solid warmth, and a clean, fresh smell that bombarded his senses. He thought of racing pulses and warm beds, a hand rubbing his back. A voice rumbled against his face, a bit muffled, but urgent.

“What are you doing?”

“Derek…” he said again, because it was the only word he knew.

“Yeah,” the hound said, “yeah, I’m here. I’m here.”

Stiles hummed and tried to lift his hand to hold Derek’s jacket, but the leather didn’t creak with his pulling, and he couldn’t feel its smoothness against his fingertips. Something—Derek’s hand, maybe—skated from his shoulder and down his arm, but he couldn’t feel it past his elbow, even as he heard it plunge into the water. All he felt were heat, burning, and a nagging tug pulling him towards darkness again.

“Did you want this?” Derek breathed unsteadily. “Did you mean to…to…” His swallow echoed through his chest. “Stiles, you have to tell me if you…because I…”

Stiles pressed his face against Derek’s chest, harder than Derek’s hold but not by much, and made a small, wounded sound. He was so tired, and being close like this felt nice. He wanted to sleep, and he wanted Derek to stay.

“I can’t heal you if you intended this,” Derek murmured. “I can’t heal you if you…want to…”

“No,” Stiles managed, his tongue a useless slug in his mouth.

“No?” Derek eased Stiles away from his chest, but he didn’t have the strength to sit upright on his own. Derek seemed to know—of course he did—and supported Stiles so he could search his face. He was so so worried, and Stiles never meant for that to happen, but as Derek’s gaze flitted about his face, the hound only frowned deeper.

“No,” Stiles rasped again. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Derek said. “You’re sure.”

“…yeah.”

He nodded a little frantically. “Okay. Good. That’s good.” Derek eased Stiles back into the water—its sloshing was loud—and a splash heralded his free hand dipping into the tub. Stiles couldn’t feel his touch, but the heat— _healing_ , his brain helpfully supplied—was something he could. “It’s okay for you go to sleep,” Derek said. “You’ll—”

“No,” Stiles begged. “Stay. Derek…”

“I will,” the hound gentled. “Just sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up, I promise.”

Stiles didn’t need further encouragement.

Consciousness rushed back to him, faster on the return trip than the initial plunge, and time was no longer an applicable construct. He vaguely recognized, immediately and surprisingly, his bedroom. He blinked several times to check the validity of his sight, to make sure the darkness and shadows didn’t mislead him. He didn’t remember much after dozing off in the tub, but recent experience taught him where he passed out was where he awoke, alone. The absence of cold water, the worn, soft sheets against his skin, the weighted drag of his mattress against his back were…unexpected and confusing. A deep ache, radiating from somewhere near the center of his brain, made thinking an arduous process, so he stopped.

He tried to press his hand against his eyes, maybe alleviate some of the pain, but it was anchored, clasped, and, now that he thought about it, very warm. A sharp breath of cold—a gasp—chilled his knuckles.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice cut through Stiles’ budding panic before it grew into more than a passing thought. It rattled a few hazy memories from the nebulous cloud in Stiles’ head—Derek showing up, Derek scared, Derek asking him…something. But the hellhound’s fear stuck with Stiles best, was the strongest recollection. “Holy fuck, Stiles…” Derek’s jacket creaked, and his silhouette loomed over him for a split second before damp lips pressed an urgent, relieved kiss to his forehead. Some warmth disappeared from his hand only to slide through his hair.

“…Derek?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Why?” Stiles squeezed his hand where Derek still held it, surprised to find their fingers laced. If more of his pain receptors were active, Derek’s grip might have been bruising.

“You asked me to. And—” Derek abruptly stopped, then sighed warily. “I wanted to be.”

Another piece of the puzzle Stiles didn’t find in the heaping piles of feelings and abstractions cluttering his head, but it didn’t sound out of character for him, not when he vividly recalled hoping Derek could sense his feelings for him. Maybe Derek actually had.

With a hitched breath, Stiles closed his burning eyes hard.

Derek reluctantly withdrew from hovering over Stiles and returned to his seat beside the bed. “You’re still recovering,” Derek said, low, as if he knew Stiles’ head pounded. He adjusted his hands to encase Stiles’ entirely, then brought them to his lips again. There, Stiles felt how they trembled. “So I’ll stay until you’re stronger.”

“No,” Stiles croaked, pinching his brows in frustration.

“I can’t leave until you’re—”

“No, Derek,” Stiles interrupted. “Just…stay. I just want you to stay.” He sniffed. “I’ve wanted you here for weeks. I’ve wanted you here since—” _Since always._

Derek hummed when Stiles’ words unexpectedly failed. “I know,” he said. “I felt it. I heard you.”

“You never came,” Stiles hissed, angry in spite of his unsolicited lethargy.

With another hum, Derek brushed his thumb against Stiles’ knuckles. “I’m here now,” he said, and even if Stiles recognized the offering for what it was, he was still upset. Before he could launch into a tirade, Derek continued with faint notes of shame, “I didn’t know if I’d get to you in time.”

Curiosity trumped his anger. “…why?” Stiles asked. He brushed his thumb along Derek’s thumb in turn, the movement jerky, like the circuits between his brain and his limbs still occasionally sparked.

“The barrier,” Derek answered, “around your house. I worried it was still up.”

“I tore it down right after you left that night,” Stiles said. “It was fucked up. What I did was fucked up. The things I said—”

“Shut up, Stiles,” the hellhound said.

With a shaky breath, Stiles clenched his jaw and braced for the inevitable black out. He waited, with panic ebbing through his veins, for the pull of Derek’s healing to drag him into darkness; to wake up alone and left without answers. But before he could start trembling in earnest, Derek crowded over him again, his hand abandoned so the hound could, instead, frame his face.

“Hey,” Derek soothed, low and sweet. “Hey. Stiles, look at me.”

Stiles did, opening his burning eyes, watery with tears he didn’t notice until they tracked into his temples.

“It’s okay. Stiles, it’s okay.” Wiping his face tenderly, Derek said, “I’m not—I won’t leave you again. I won’t force you under. I’m here, okay? I’m here.”

The accusation spewed, “You _always_ —”

“I know,” Derek said, cutting him off. “And _I know_.”

“Maybe it’s not just for you,” Stiles whispered. “Maybe it’s for me, too. Maybe I need—” When he tried to wipe his face with his free hand, how easily it rose to the occasion was startling; functional, but clumsy. When last he tried, it’d been little more than dead weight attached to his elbow. But his words were startled birds in the underbrush of his mind, scattering at the first sign of trouble.

“Later, then,” Derek bargained. “When you’re feeling better, okay? Whatever you have to say, I’ll listen.”

“…I need to, Derek.”

“You don’t,” the hellhound countered gently. “You want to. It’s appreciated, but unnecessary. Especially now.”

“It’s _necessary_ now,” Stiles pushed. He tugged weakly on the corner of his jacket until Derek took his hand again. “Derek, I’m sorry. I didn’t—I hadn’t— I’m _sorry_.”

Nodding, Derek said, “I know. I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry it came to this. I’m sorry you…” He traced a line along the length of Stiles’ forearm, and when he squinted, Stiles just made out the faint pink line of his newest scar. Derek followed it with reverent fingers, just the ghost of a touch, and the scar was thin enough for Stiles to still feel most of it. “…I never wanted this for you. I had no idea you’d ever…or would want…”

“I didn’t,” Stiles said quickly. “I _don’t_. Derek, I—fuck, what was I supposed to do? You never came, and I’m—I’m a liability to my team. It was the only way I could—and I can’t… _fuck_.”

“I know,” Derek remarked fondly. “How many times must I tell you? _I know_ , alright? I understand. I’m just—sorry, is all. I’m sorry.”

“Do you, though?” Stiles sniped, injecting as much indignity into his voice as he could manage. “Do you understand, Derek? Because I sure as hell don’t.” He ruthlessly snagged every fleeting thought and jammed them together into some utterable, jumbled mass. This couldn’t wait. At any moment, Derek might disappear, leaving Stiles right where he was before he slit his wrists. “I’ve tried for weeks to reach you, to apologize, and not just because I felt bad—because I do, feel bad, I mean, about what I did. I was shitty, and you didn’t deserve that, even if I was mad. But then these—I’m seeing shit, Derek. Shit I know isn’t there, and I...I’m scared, okay? I’m fucking terrified because I don’t know what it is or what it means and you weren’t here to ask. Fuck, Derek, why? Why would you do that to me? I know you were mad, I know I hurt you, but _fuck_ , dude.”

Derek’s face, difficult as it was to see in the scarce light, cracked a little more the longer Stiles’ spoke until it completely shattered beneath the weight of the accusation. _Why would you do that to me_ seemed the key phrase to finally tear open the wounds of Derek’s beautifully expressive eyes, to stagger his already unsteady breath. “Your visions—” he started. But he didn’t continue, as if rethinking his words. “I didn’t stay away out of spite. At first, anyway. You didn’t want me around. You locked me out—”

Stiles argued, “I broke the barrier as soon as—”

“You still locked me out, Stiles,” Derek insisted. “So I stayed away until you needed me.”

“I needed you a lot more than just the hunts, Derek,” Stiles admitted quietly.

“Just because you need something doesn’t mean you want it,” Derek said; just like he had before climbing into Stiles’ bed to help him sleep.

“Did you know?” Stiles demanded. “Did you know I needed you?”

Nodding once, Derek said, “I did, but you didn’t _want_ me around. And for a while, I didn’t want to _be_ around.”

“What changed your mind?” Stiles used his free hand to adjust the blankets, to tug them up beneath his chin, but he was still weak. Derek helped him without thinking, like tucking Stiles in had somehow become second nature.

“I’d been working up to it for a while, but Rosier and Ashteroth forced my hand.” The hound watched their joined hands and asked, “What about you?”

“I thought you knew,” Stiles teased, and when Derek smirked, he considered himself victorious. Then he sighed softly and said, “Manticore hunt.”

“That’s fast,” Derek commented absently.

With a light scoff, Stiles said, “I hadn’t figured things out entirely, but I knew I wanted you back.” Then he added, quickly, “Around. That I wanted you back around.”

He didn’t expect Derek to laugh—saccharine and with curling amusement—but Stiles was instantly smitten; Derek had never seemed so human, so tangible as he did in that moment, when he tucked his chin as if he were shy or embarrassed. As if he didn’t know what to do with the idea of Stiles wanting him. But before Stiles could remark on it, maybe gently tease Derek some more, the front door slammed.

“Shit!” Stiles hissed, and he yanked his hand from Derek’s grasp to free himself from the blankets. It didn’t work as well as he hoped, but adrenaline was a powerful thing. He managed to force himself upright and maintain his balance even through the head rush. When Derek braced him between his steady hands, one on his back and one on his chest, he didn’t fight it. He couldn’t. But still, his heart thudded against Derek’s palm. “My dad. I have to—the bathtub—I wrote a note and—”

“It’s okay,” Derek said. “I took care of it.”

“I—what?”

“I took care of it,” Derek repeated.

“The tub?”

“Drained. Cleaned.”

“My note?”

“Tucked in the bottom desk drawer.”

“But—” Worry crackled at the edges of Stiles’ nerves, but Derek had stayed with Stiles like he used to. Maybe he covered Stiles’ tracks as well. With his dad’s heavy steps climbing the stairs, Stiles still braced himself for the worst.

“You lost a lot of blood,” Derek said softly. “Lay down. Rest.” He stood and shoved his chair towards the desk. Even with the carpet, its wheels squeaked until it rested as if carelessly abandoned. Taking to his knees, Derek maneuvered Stiles’ hand to rest by his side, even as he slid his palm beneath it, wrapped haphazardly in the blankets.

Curious, Stiles let Derek to it, but his reasons became clear when his father’s knuckles gently rapped on the door. A moment later, it opened just a crack, just enough for the Sheriff to unobtrusively peek into the room.

But Stiles was clearly awake, so his dad said, “Hey, kiddo,” and opened the door enough to lean against the frame.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles answered.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” Stiles said, though his groggy voice made it seem a lie. Neither of them had to mention his restless nights. “What’s up?”

“Just checking on you,” the Sheriff answered.

Stiles sighed and shifted beneath the blankets. “I’m fine, Dad,” he said. “Really.”

“I know,” the Sheriff said quietly. “Just wanted to make sure.” After Stiles hummed, he said, “I love you, son.”

Stiles couldn’t remember a time it hurt more to hear him say it. Maybe right after his mom died, or the first time he’d said it after nearly dying himself. Unexpectedly moved, Stiles sniffled and blinked before burning could turn into tears. “Love you, too, Dad.”

Derek squeezed his hand in reassurance, and Stiles squeezed back.

The Sheriff’s answering smile was a small, fond thing, even in shadow; and his badge glittered where it rested above his heart. Stiles could almost feel its weight in his palm instead of Derek’s hand, like at the funeral in a dream he had. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

“‘night, Dad.”

The Sheriff shut the door softly as he left, and his booted steps disappeared down the hall. When another door clicked shut—his dad’s bedroom—he breathed in relief.

Though he was sure he wouldn’t be overheard, Stiles kept his voice hushed. “You knew he’d come in?”

Derek shrugged. “I figured he would.”

“Would he have seen you?”

“No,” Derek said. “Just the chair by your bed, which would have been strange.”

Stiles agreed, “Yeah. I guess so. Good thinking, putting it back.”

“You should try to sleep, Stiles,” Derek murmured.

Gripping his hand a little tighter, Stiles asked, “Will I see you in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, “if you want.”

“Will you stay?”

“Yeah, if you want.” When Derek brushed back his hair, and Stiles immediately relaxed.

After swallowing, Stiles licked his lips. “But is it what _you_ want?”

Derek’s attention drifted to their joined hands before he said quietly, almost too quiet to hear, “Yeah, it is.”

What lingering anxiety quivered in his chest settled with Derek’s declaration. Stiles bit the corner of his lip to smother an involuntary grin, then tugged lightly on the hellhound’s hand before scooting over in the bed. He turned onto his side with his free hand tucked beneath the pillow.

Raising his head with brows arched in question, Derek opened his mouth to speak, but Stiles beat him to it.

“If you want,” he said, then tugged his hand again.

Instead of answering, Derek watched him for a few aching heartbeats before slipping out of Stiles’ grip. Stiles imagined him leaving, pushed too far with Stiles’ pathetic neediness. He chastised himself for his own stupidity, already cold from being so near the wall. But then Derek shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the desk chair; he unlaced his boots and set them beneath the window; and he hesitated at the edge of the bed.

Stiles patted the mattress, and it was enough for Derek to ease into the space Stiles made for him. “Will you be comfortable?” he asked, pulling back until Derek was also on his side and they faced one another. The hound still wore his jeans, his belt.

“Comfortable enough.”

“Will you sleep?”

“Hellhounds don’t sleep,” Derek said. “But I can stay here while you do.”

With a thoughtful hum, Stiles made an aborted move towards Derek. “Do you, uh, mind if I—?”

“No,” Derek said and reached for him.

Because his strength was still feeble, Stiles was grateful for Derek’s help in bringing them closer. The bed was only so big, but much like the last time they’d shared it, Derek maneuvered Stiles into a position of safety and comfort—though his touch was much gentler this time. A pull at his hips, a push at his shoulders, he guided Stiles to curl against him, half-atop him. The hellhound pulled the blankets up and over Stiles’ shoulders, then rested a hand at the small of his back.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed. “I’m good.” He slid his hand up Derek’s shirt and pressed his chilly palm against the hound’s warm flesh. “Will my dad see your shape beneath the blankets?”

“No,” Derek said, arching a little closer to Stiles.

“What will he see?”

“You asleep, so sleep.” Then, into Stiles’ hairline, he said, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Stiles dropped off between one heartbeat and the next.

 

###

 

As promised, Stiles woke to Derek still in his bed.

“Your dad’s making breakfast,” Derek mumbled just as Stiles completely regained his wits. The hound’s eyes remained closed, and his voice was rough, like maybe he’d been asleep, too. Though Stiles distinctly remembered him saying hellhounds didn’t sleep, it was still a pleasant thought. The last time he’d fallen asleep curled around Derek, he woke up alone. “Waffles,” he added absently. He shifted, pressing his face deeper into Stiles’ pillow, and the arm around Stiles’ waist tightened.

Stiles stretched in Derek’s hold and yawned widely. “Want me to save you some?” he asked as his muscles burned nice and loose.

“Hellhounds don’t need food,” he mumbled. “And you’re still regaining your strength. So eat your fill.”

“I’ll save you some,” Stiles scoffed. He eased himself up with trembling arms and slid his hips to sit up without dislodging the weight of Derek’s arm around him. It draped over his lap when he was finished, and he slotted his fingers between the hound’s loosely curled ones resting beside his hip. “You can stay here, you know, if you want. If you don’t have else anywhere to be or anything.”

Derek’s stubble scraped against the pillowcase as he turned just enough to zero in on Stiles with one beautiful eye. It closed with a soft sigh when Stiles threaded his fingers through his hair. He noted the pallor of Derek’s face, how his stubble was a dark shadow along the edge of his jaw, how marks like bruises smeared beneath his eyes.

“I know you said hellhounds don’t sleep,” Stiles murmured, “but you can rest here. For as long as you want. Or need. Okay? Anytime.” Dragging the pad of his thumb along the side of Derek’s cheek, he continued, “I don’t—I don’t want to chase you away again. I want you to feel safe with me, okay? Because I feel safe with you. So, yeah. Open invitation.”

That brilliant eye opened again, and what Stiles could see of his soft lips quirked just a bit. He let out a tired breath and pressed his face somewhere between the crease of the pillow and Stiles’ hip. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Stiles managed around the lump in his throat. “Always.” He carefully freed himself from the blankets, Derek’s hold, the warmth of…everything, and moved down the length of the bed. He kissed Derek’s temple briefly, boldly, before sliding off the foot of the bed. If he worried about Derek’s reaction to the affection, how the hound wiggled into the warmth of Stiles’ abandoned space and went pliant beneath the blankets eased it. As he slipped on a soft, worn hoodie to hide his newest scars from his father, his chest tightened; Derek looked good in his bed. The image looked right. He was so _gone_ , even after everything, and he was so _screwed_.

“Go eat,” Derek groused, his voice muffled by the pillow.

So Stiles went downstairs.

He expected his father to be making breakfast: baked batter, the sweet scent of powdered sugar, maple syrup; his father’s back to the kitchen entryway, entirely engrossed in not  setting off the smoke detector; sunlight filtered through curtains his mother hung over the sink before Stiles was born. What he didn’t expect was Chris and Allison sitting at the kitchen table, clearly there for breakfast as well. Wearing his hoodie was very wise in retrospect.

“Hey, kiddo,” the Sheriff said, glancing over his shoulder from where he manned the waffle iron. “I was just about to come wake you.”

Perplexed, Stiles furrowed his brow and tentatively took one of the two vacant seats at the table; glasses of water and orange juice were already set with plates and flatware. The Sheriff even folded the napkins—he never bothered folding the napkins.

Allison smiled brilliantly, though Stiles’ skin prickled as if vaguely threatened; and Chris’ own grin was obviously meant to be disarming, but was more predatory than reassuring.

“Where are the others?” Stiles asked, despite how the table was set for, and only sat, four people. “I didn’t realize we were having a group breakfast. Has something happened?”

“No,” Allison said. “Everyone’s fine. Everything’s good.”

“It’s just us this time,” Chris agreed.

“…Dad? What’s going on?”

“We have some stuff to talk about, son,” the Sheriff answered. “So we’ll eat, then get down to business.”

Shifting anxiously in his seat, Stiles grumbled, “I think I’d prefer the business first.”

“Told you,” Allison sighed, rolling her eyes to stare exasperatedly at her father.

Chris just grunted in dismay around his glass of water.

“So what’s going on?” Stiles pressed. He dropped his head to hook the zipper of his hoodie closed, then yanked it violently up his chest. In some childish act of self-preservation, he pulled the cuffs of his sleeves over his hands and balled the extra material in his fists. “This has the distinct air of _intervention_. What did I do this time?”

“Got really good at hunting,” Allison said bluntly.

“Is that a bad thing?” Stiles asked, narrowing a challenging gaze at Chris. “I thought that was the whole point, you know, to hunt the things that hunt us?”

Chris sighed long-sufferingly, then set his water glass down with just enough force for it to maybe mean something. Unfortunately for him, Stiles knew him well enough to remain unfazed.

When the Sheriff joined the table, it was with a plate stacked high with waffles that he set between the four of them. Unsurprisingly, no one reached for the food.

“You’re…unnaturally good,” Allison hedged.

Frowning, Stiles feigned offense. “What are you trying to say, Ally? That because I’m not an Argent, I can’t be good? Or maybe you can’t accept that skinny, sarcastic Stiles might not be so useless after all?”

“Jesus, Stiles,” she scoffed, and her face scrunched in annoyance. Folding her arms across her chest, she said, “Don’t be so ridiculous. You know that’s not even remotely true.”

“Then what are you here to confront me about?” Stiles grumbled.

The Sheriff said, “We’re worried about you, son.”

Softening the severity of his tone and expression, Stiles sighed and met his father’s gaze. “You’ve been worried about me for a long time, Dad. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you I’m fine.”

“We tried to go about this in a more diplomatic way,” Chris said, chiming in for the first time. “We had Scott talk to you, and your father tried, too.”

Realization set in slowly, and maybe Derek was right about needing more time to recover, because he felt infinitely stupid for not anticipating this.

Chris continued, “But you didn’t give anything to either of them, so now Allison and I are here to approach the matter a little more bluntly.”

“You have a funny way of pronouncing the word _honestly_ ,” Stiles snapped. “Because there’s nothing underhanded or shady about using my best friend or my dad to pry information from me. Fuck, Argent, I didn’t think you were that much of a snake.”

“Watch it, Stilinski,” Allison warned.

“There was no prying,” Chris insisted. “We just knew you’d be more likely to confide in them than anyone else.”

“To, what?” Stiles pressed. “Betray my trust and report back whatever they found? What the hell do you even think I’m hiding?”

“We don’t know,” Chris growled. “And that’s the problem. You aren’t giving us anything, but everyone knows something is different—”

“You mean _wrong_ ,” Stiles interjected.

“No,” Allison argued. “We mean _different_.”

Stiles sighed and scrubbed his face, breathing deeply of the fabric softener notes embedded in the material of his sleeve. “Just say what you need to say. I had a late night. I want to go back to bed.”

“You’ve never been bad at hunting, Stiles,” Chris started. “You took to it quickly and really dedicated yourself to improving. No one will contest your skill or ability. Just…”

“Remember what I said about luck, kiddo?” the Sheriff asked.

Staring at his empty plate, Stiles lacked an adequate retort. Their gazes were three weights of judgement and worry and brimming disappointment he barely had the strength to endure. His thoughts were still sluggish, his body still cold, still physically and emotionally too disadvantaged to stay the several steps ahead of everyone as he normally did.

“I had a younger sister,” Chris started, “who was an excellent hunter. Our father trained us young, younger than even Allison was when she started her training. We grew up assembling and disassembling guns, running family-made gauntlets, and capture-escape drills. We were Argents. It’s what we did. But something changed about her—this was maybe six years ago or so—and she suddenly got _really_ good at hunting.”

“Better than just experience,” Allison explained. “Better than just training. And it was like, literally, overnight.”

“A lot like you,” Chris said.

Stiles found an interesting spot on the wall to and scratched his cheek. “What happened to her?”

Chris shrugged. “No one’s sure. Our father sent her on a solo hunt that she…wasn’t meant to complete.”

“Your dad’s a dick,” Stiles commented automatically.

“No one’s arguing that,” Allison said.

“Anyway,” Chris pushed, “she _did_ complete the hunt. It went spectacularly, and so did every subsequent hunt. Her skills were unmatched after that venture, her abilities whispered about in awe and reverence through various hunter circles. If something seemed impossible, my sister was sent to get the job done.”

“She’s the chosen one. Cool,” Stiles said. “But that’s good, right? That’s the whole point.”

“She stopped taking down marks and targets,” Chris continued.

“She abandoned the code,” Allison added.

“Instead of bringing down specific individuals or creatures, she’d slaughter entire families,” Chris explained. “Humans can exist within the same families as supernatural creatures, and she sought to cleanse whole linages of their supernatural threads. It wasn’t hunting, anymore, Stiles. It was genocide.”

“Where is she now?”

“No idea,” Allison sighed. “She dropped off the grid a few years back. We had to shun her because she abandoned the code and sullied the family honor. We’re just, you know, waiting. Most hunters think she’s murderer. If a creature doesn’t kill her, another hunter probably will.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles sighed. “So your aunt went off the deep end and, what? You think I will, too?”

Chris said, “When you become efficient at your job, it’s easy to push for further efficiency within the system. She didn’t see a point in hunting individual creatures when it seemed better practice to purge entire species.”

“That’s not—I’d never—Jesus Christ, Chris. My best friend is a _werewolf_.”

“We’re not accusing you of anything, Stiles,” the Sheriff said. “We’re not even of the mind that you’re predisposed to this. You’re nothing like Chris’ sister, beyond your uncanny hunting. We’re just worried.”

“Just follow the code, Stiles, and you’ll be fine,” Chris said.

Snarling indignantly, Stiles spat, “Are you _threatening_ me?”

“We’re just warning you,” Chris offered, opening his hands in some casual gesture of placation or faux peace. “That’s all. Expressing our concern.”

“Fuck you, Chris,” Stiles hissed. “And fuck your concern. I’m _not_ a murderer.” He slammed his hands on the table as he stood, then leaned over and pointed at Allison. “And you. You think I’d ever turn on Scott? You think I’d ever see him as less than my brother?” He shook his head, disgusted, then shoved himself away from the table and stormed out of the kitchen. As he stomped up the stairs, he heard his father:

“Well, that went about as well as I expected.”

“Just keep an eye on him, John. None of us want to see him hurt.”

 

###

 

Stiles drove.

Brimming with white hot self-righteous indignation and fueled with a prey animal flight impulse, he hadn’t noticed whether a certain hellhound still occupied his bed. He’d just thrown on clothes, grabbed his essentials, and escaped his oppressive home like a wanted criminal. The rotation of _clutch-shift-gas_ was a safe, familiar rhythm as suburbia gave way to commercial development, then finally the town’s fringe. When he reached the destination he never realized he headed toward, several more direct routes came to mind—brief flickers of remorse for inefficiency—but he’d needed the drive. He needed to clear his head.

Derek waited for him on the charred front steps of the Hale house. _His house_ , Stiles reminded himself, climbing out of his Jeep.

“You’re upset,” Derek said, genuine worry creasing his brow. When Stiles swayed, he added, “And weak.”

“We need to talk,” Stiles snapped. At Derek’s deepening frown, he offered quietly, “Sorry. I’m just—”

“Upset,” Derek both repeated and finished for him.

At a loss, Stiles shrugged. “...yeah.” He slammed the Jeep’s door shut and dragged himself to the meager staircase leading to what once might have been a lovely front patio. There, he dropped heavily and hid his face against the crossed arms he braced atop his knees.

Derek sat beside him, a line of warmth just a hair shy of intrusive. Stiles expected the silence of his presence, that quiet strength and comfort he so often experienced; so he was particularly surprised when Derek said, “Give me your hands?” like a question.

With a tired laugh, Stiles asked, “What? Why?”

“Humor me,” Derek said.

So Stiles did. The request felt like an olive branch, a risk Derek thought worth taking. Stiles turned and faced the hellhound by tucking a leg beneath him, then extended his hands with his palms up.

“Turn around,” Derek said, shifting to lean against the banister. He spread his legs accommodatingly, one foot resting on the stair below. “With your back to me.”

So Stiles did that, too, though with much more skepticism. He felt strangely vulnerable, foreign unease pushing down on his stomach. He let out a sudden and indignant yelp when Derek grabbed him by the hips and hauled him against his body until his shoulder blades met the hound’s chest. He still stupidly kept his palms up. “What are you—?”

Behind him, Derek released a gentle breath, the flutter in his chest tapping an anxious rhythm against Stiles’ back. Then, Derek pressed his fingertips against Stiles’, caging him with his strong arms. After carefully sliding them up the lengths of his fingers—so tentative and intentional, Stiles swore he could feel the ridges of Derek’s fingertips—Derek pressed gently into the hearts of his palms. Derek’s hands were wider than Stiles’. Powerful and dangerous, they crushed necks, sometimes ended in claws, and summoned the fires of Hell. Here, though, his touch dragged waves of heat, soft, soothing, and sinking delicately into the fibers of Stiles’ muscles. Derek was tender; Stiles shivered.

Derek’s lips tickled the downy hair on the back of his neck when he asked, “Okay?”

Stiles didn’t imagine sounding so breathless. “Yeah...”

Moving methodically, Derek’s hands glided until their palms met. There, he paused, and the heat gradually increased. Stiles let out a shaky sigh, then Derek pushed further until he cradled Stiles’ wrists. His grip was warmest there, tendrils like summer sun snaking up his arms. The hound’s thumbs massaged the divots of his wrists, slight pressure against the taught tendons.

“What are you doing?” Stiles managed without a stammer.

“Adjusting your body chemistry,” Derek said, though if it sounded like a purr to Stiles, he couldn’t be blamed. “Just relax. Let me do this.”

“I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open, dude,” Stiles admitted lightly. “This feels amazing.”

“Good,” Derek said, and Stiles felt the curve of his smile just behind his ear. His thumbs continued tracing gentle circles against the tender flesh of Stiles’ inner wrists until Stiles swayed. Braced by Derek’s broad chest, he just let his head fall against the hound’s shoulder.

“I’m gonna doze off if you keep this up,” Stiles warned with a mumble.

“You wanted to talk,” Derek said. “But you weren’t in any shape to; you shouldn’t have even been driving. Your blood sugar was low and you’re dehydrated.”

“Mm. You’re very sweet, taking care of me like this,” and Stiles turned his head to brush his lips ever so lightly against Derek’s neck.

“You want answers,” Derek said, but he didn’t recoil from the affection. “I know you still feel betrayed.” He traced the faint, pink scars beginning at Stiles’ wrists as if mourning. Stiles settled into its heat, soothing and quiet. “It’s festering behind your ribs.”

Stiles swallowed and tucked his forehead under Derek’s jaw, half limp, braced and enveloped by the hellhound’s sturdy frame. He wasn’t wrong. “I’m more worried about these hallucinations,” he said. “I can’t function. I can’t anticipate them. What’s happening to me?”

“It’s a symptom of an encroaching reaping.”

“What do you mean?”

“A standard soul deal is for ten years, and when a person has about six months left, the visions start. Loved ones, friends, passersby all wearing demonic faces,” Derek explained. “Then the hell sounds come. Roars and screams. At about the three month mark, the hellhound barks and snarls. People rarely last their full ten years, because the tail end of their time terrifies them into an untimely death.”

“I still have five, six months, though,” Stiles said. “That’s not even close in terms of, like, relative percentages.”

“Your deal was an exception, as is your exposure to demonic energy. It might be accelerating the process.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“No,” Derek said, remorsefully. “I don’t.”

Stiles asked hopefully, “Can anything be done about it?”

“I can fortify your body against it—stop your heart from racing, lessen the startle and fear responses—and maybe mitigate the intrusive energy.”

Nodding, Stiles said, “Okay, yeah. Whatever you can do to help would be great. I’m completely inept right now. No focus, no point of reference. I’m totally—woah.” The heat radiated up his shoulders and through his chest where it unfurled like a blooming flower. “What are you doing?”

“Easing the burden,” Derek said. “It should help.”

“Holy shit.” Stiles’ muscles melted under his skin, tension flushed away with the rolling waves of Derek’s energy pulsed through him. It slithered down his torso, settling with startling weight somewhere between his stomach and his dick. Delicious in its pressure, Stiles couldn’t quite stifle a soft moan.

“Mm,” Derek sounded a little smug. “Feeling better?”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Derek chuckled gently, then released his wrists to slot his fingers between Stiles’, their palms flush. “We should talk,” he suggested.

“Do you want to?” Stiles uneasily hedged.

“You do,” Derek answered plainly. “You need to.”

Cringing, Stiles said, “I can’t stomach forcing you into anything.”

Derek promised, “You’re not. I want to give you what you need, put your mind at ease. Ask me.”

Stiles hummed wistfully. “Derek Hale,” he said, particularly pleased. He tucked his hands against his chest and consequently pulled Derek’s arms around him. “Were you ever going to tell me who you were?”

“I never intended it,” Derek sighed.

Frowning, Stiles asked, “Why not? You had to know I’d—”

“Of course I did,” the hound interrupted. “I do. I can sense everything, Stiles.”

“Why not, then?” he asked again, softer this time, more resigned. Shame bubbled up uninvited in anticipation of an answer he didn’t want to hear, but needed to know anyway. If Derek really did know and sense everything, as he continued to claim, the reason was obvious and embarrassing.

“Because what-ifs and might-have-beens will torment you. Besides, you didn’t even know me when I was mortal.”

“But I know you now,” Stiles said. “I still feel the same.”

“But _I’m_ not the same. Stiles, I’m a fucking hellhound,” Derek pushed. “I’m going to rip your soul out and drag you into the Pit. I shouldn’t...” He pressed his mouth against Stiles’ shoulder as if to silence himself, or maybe hide.

Imploringly, Stiles lightly tugged Derek’s hand; a gentle prompting. “You shouldn’t what?”

Derek swallowed, and Stiles felt his throat work where leaned up against him. “I shouldn’t be your Derek Hale. I can’t be. He wouldn’t—wouldn’t do what a hellhound will do to you.”

“Did you know who I was? When I made the deal and Peter summoned you, did you remember me?”

“I’ve known who you were since your father went into a coma.”

“How does that even work? I didn’t make the deal until after he was declared brain dead.”

“I’m drawn to Beacon Hills.”

“Is it because you died here?”

Derek shrugged. “Maybe. It’s just a pull. Sometimes I withstand it, sometimes I don’t. I happened to have a moment of weakness when your father was injured. What holds a soul in place snapped quickly.”

Humming a vague acknowledgement, Stiles stared at the dilapidated support beams of the porch, tracing what lines and swirls he could of the wood grain. He’d only ever seen the place a handful of times before it burned down, and afterwards, only in photos of its previous grandeur; but he couldn’t imagine photos did it justice. Not when so large a family lived there, not in so lovely a wood. Even at his loneliest, even when his grief was an insurmountable beast clawing behind his ribs, his imagination left him wanting when he thought of the Hale house.

“It was beautiful,” Derek said. It was the first time he responded so directly to Stiles’ emotions. “You’d have loved it.”

“With you?”

“Yeah, eventually.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles tried to sit up, but Derek held him fast. It felt like entrapment for a fleeting, terrifying moment, but Derek’s soft, weary voice—like how badly he hurt—stilled him:

“My mom was going to invite you and your dad over for dinner sometime, since he’d been so helpful with my case. We might have become friends, if the fire hadn’t happened.”

Stiles didn’t ask about the case. He remembered bits and pieces he’d overheard as a kid—an older woman; abusive relationship—and that was enough. He feared he’d buckle beneath the gravity of the details. Instead, he said, fondly, “I would have liked that, getting to know you. Do you actually think we could have been friends, though?”

“I like to think we maybe could.”

What-ifs. Might-have-beens. Derek was right; it hurt.

“Me, too,” Stiles said. “And what about now?”

“What about now?”

Chewing his lip, Stiles asked, “Are we friends?”

“You love me,” Derek said simply. “I just don’t know if it’s because you think I’m your Derek Hale or...something else.”

“You keep saying ‘my Derek Hale,’ as if you’re two different people, and you’re not,” Stiles hissed. He might not have been the Derek Hale Stiles imagined, but he was still _Stiles’_. His hellhound, his guardian, his…favorite what-if.

“I’m not the perfect, romantic boyfriend you randomly imagined,” Derek growled, grief grinding hard against his anger. “I wasn’t when I was mortal, and I’m not now. I’m not the Derek Hale you made up!”

Stiles tried to pull away again, and Derek let him; he couldn’t tell if it was with disgust or relief. Pierced through a chink in his armor he’d only recently discovered, one he hadn’t learned how to protect yet, Stiles’ breath stuttered. His eyes burned and he was so close to crying, embarrassment prepared him to run. Instead, he curled in on himself, arms up and hands in his hair to hide his face, to make himself as small as possible.

“I’m not angry,” Derek said, and he dragged his hand down Stiles’ spine, stopping at the discs he’d repaired after the tsuchigumo. “That you thought so highly of me, that you fell in love with that ideal. I’m just sorry I don’t measure up to him. I thought it would be worse for you if you knew.”

“It’s hard,” Stiles admitted, “reconciling you are with who I imagined you to be, but that’s my own fault for being naive and conflicted. It was so ridiculous, but it was harmless at the time. You were dead; so what if I contrived someone around your name and your face and a poetry book you gave me? It didn’t matter. But now...”

“I know,” Derek said. “I know and I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t know,” Stiles said, snarling when he looked at Derek over his shoulder. “You have no fucking clue. You kissed me before I knew. _You_ , not ‘my Derek Hale.’ And my feelings haven’t changed.”

Derek shrugged, and how indifferent he seemed, like none of it mattered, offended Stiles.

“It’s everything, if you care to know,” Stiles said bitterly. “It’s the poetry and your eyes and your tragedy; saving my dad, saving me, taking care of me; the kisses and the concern. It’s everything to me.”

“I’m still not who you imagined me to be,” Derek whispered. “And it disappoints you. You’re bitter. You’re angry. You feel cheated.”

“Of course I feel cheated!” Stiles snapped. “Of course I’m bitter!” But before Derek could jump to conclusions, he barreled onward, “Peter said that I wouldn’t even remember _my name_ after being on the rack, let alone anything else. But Ashteroth said you’ve been on the rack, and you still remember. You remember your sister and you remember giving me _Crush_ and you remember your mom and how she gave you your name. Clearly, whatever you’ve been through hasn’t been enough to break you, and fuck, Derek, what does that say about who you were when you were human? So, yeah, I feel cheated. I feel cheated that I only get to know you now, after Hell. I’d give almost anything to have had you before.” He sighed, then, drained; but he let Derek collect him again. He needed to be held, felt like he’d fall apart if he wasn’t, so Derek held him without being asked. It encouraged Stiles. “But I’m happy I know you now. It means so much to know you at all.”

“Demons lie,” Derek reminded him, self-deprecating. He held Stiles like it was a privilege he didn’t deserve, as if Stiles ever wanted to leave.

And, yeah, Stiles might have deserved that jab. “Did Peter lie?”

“No.”

“Did Ashteroth?”

“...no.”

Stiles drew up his knees and nestled more firmly against Derek, fighting hard not to tremble. His stampeding heart made his toes tingle and his head buzz, hurling toward a precipice Stiles both craved and rejected. He wanted to know, but he didn’t want to know what it meant, what it could mean. He also didn’t want it to mean nothing, not really.

Derek shushed him, though, like he did the night before the basilisk hunt. “Calm down,” he said gently. “I might have balanced your chemistry, but you’re still recovering.”

“You healed me,” Stiles argued.

“You’re taxed.”

“Derek.”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What Ashteroth said was true.”

Derek hesitated, and Stiles felt his heart throb where his shoulder pressed into his chest. Uncertainly, he said, “I already told you she didn’t lie.”

“You also told me you wanted to put my mind at ease,” Stiles countered. “So tell me. Please. I’m tired of trying to figure you out, of parsing through what you say or don’t say, what you do or don’t do. Just _tell me_ , for once.”

“I was on the rack recently,” the hound said. “That’s part of why I couldn’t come to you even after I was ready to, and only came when your life was threatened.”

When he didn’t seem inclined to continue, Stiles begged, “Derek, don’t make me ask.”

“I care about you,” Derek relented. “But you know that already, Stiles. You’ve known it from the beginning.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve never—”

“The first night your dad was home from the hospital,” the hound said firmly. “You came into your room drunk, kept thanking me for giving you your dad back. You knew, even then, that I treated you differently; you’ve known all along.”

“I’ve never sold my soul before,” Stiles mumbled dejectedly, a touch defensively. How could he identify compassion from a demon? How was he supposed understand kindness from a hellhound? “I didn’t know how—I’d never—”

“You knew,” Derek gentled. “You always knew.” He breathed deep and kissed Stiles’ temple. “I never hid it from you.”

“You didn’t,” Stiles agreed, quiet in amazement. “I guess I just didn’t—I didn’t want to think—” When Derek’s hand stroked his shoulder steadily, it tethered him to the moment, but all he could manage was Derek’s name. His chest was caving in on itself, his ribs lancing his heart and lungs until he let out a strangled whimper.

“Do you need me to say it?”

Stiles nodded, breathing wet and ragged against his throat.

Nosing into Stiles’ hair, Derek purred, “I love you.”

Hitching a gasp, Stiles fisted the lapel of Derek’s jacket.

“I wish I could have told you sooner.”

Abrupt realization rippled through Stiles, crushing the small seeds of hope before they could take root in his heart. Cold fear prickled up his spine, numbness webbing down his arms and undoing all the work of Derek’s touch.  “...does Peter know?”

Startlingly devoid of inflection, Derek said, “He has his suspicions.”

The temptation to ask what it meant for them, what it meant for Derek, seemed an unnecessary wound to salt despite his impulses. Ashteroth’s threats, still fresh in his mind weeks later, cast a shadow over whatever happiness came with Derek’s declaration. In light of what little remained of his life, Stiles left it alone—he’d keep it for as long as he could. Derek loved him. Confirmed, the words rumbled in his sweet voice and sealed with a kiss, Stiles wouldn’t let him go unless Derek wanted to go. Even then, Stiles resolved to fight for him. “And you’ve always known how I felt?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know I love you, too.” Because they were the only words he had for the immensity and complexity of what he felt. But Derek must have known that, too— _felt it_.

“Yeah,” Derek said. “But I like the sound of you saying it. I’m glad you can say it to me aloud.”

“Same,” Stiles said. “I like hearing it. I like—everything with you, really, Der.”

“Same,” Derek answered. His hand inched beneath Stiles’ clothes, brushing lightly against his skin—just a touch, a point of contact. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was. I didn’t want to ruin your ideal. I didn’t want to weigh you down with it.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles said. “I understand, now. And I’m sorry I pushed you away. I was a really complex mess—still am, by the way, about all of this; it’s a lot—but anger was the quickest thing for me. I shouldn’t have lashed out.”

“I never blamed you,” Derek said. “But thank you.”

“So we’ve made up,” Stiles announced. “Can we kiss now?”

Laughing sweetly, Derek asked, “You don’t want to talk anymore?”

“My questions are limitless, dude,” Stiles bluntly said. “But I’d really rather kiss you, if you’re agreeable.”

“Yeah,” Derek sighed fondly. “I think it’s agreeable.”

Stiles disentangled himself from Derek’s arms, limbs that went loose at the first signs of his intent to move, and launched himself onto his knees in the space Derek made for him between his legs. He was a head taller than Derek this way, and blinked rapidly through a greying of his vision—too much movement too quickly, he figured. Derek’s hands found his waist, steadying him where his balance wavered. He mimicked the motion, delicately framing Derek’s face between his reverent hands, and brushed the line between skin and stubble with the pads of his thumbs. Stiles, briefly, wondered what he looked like to Derek, because Derek’s pupils were blown black, his brows arched just a tick in awe, his lips slightly parted—waiting. He was so beautiful. “This is okay?” he asked.

Derek swallowed, but never took his eyes off Stiles. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay.”

Leaning down, Stiles murmured, “Good,” and he felt Derek take a breath just before their lips met. A brief brush of lips, catching in the dampness left by nervous tongues and overwhelmed sighs, just to relearn Derek’s mouth—the taste of it, the feel of it, the stubble surrounding it. Then, Stiles tilted his head and moved, a breath, a press, a caress. He’d never kissed anyone before, had only ever been kissed and actively participated after the fact; but Derek let him lead, let him sort through the sensations and emotions and ramifications with the tip of his tongue and nipping teeth.  Derek groaned when Stiles suckled his bottom lip, and Stiles’ back arched into the drag of Derek’s nails down his flanks.

Initiating balanced a ledger in Stiles’ mind, unlocked the restraint he’d unconsciously exercised every other time they’d kissed. Derek gave him something close to submission, but more akin to trust—permission, really, for Stiles to have this, to have him. Bracing himself with one hand against the banister, Stiles angled Derek’s jaw just a bit, just enough to part for a gasp before delving further into the languid intimacy. Derek hummed when Stiles traced his swollen bottom lip with his tongue, opened his mouth to better taste him when Stiles guided him to do so. Soon, they both moaned.

“How am I doing?” Stiles teased, dragging kiss-red lips up Derek’s jaw.

The hound accommodated him readily, nails anxiously scratching where his hands were rooted somewhere near Stiles’ hips. “Not bad,” he rasped. “But…here.” He cupped Stiles’ face and guided him away from where he tried to move down Derek’s neck. “Just kiss me,” Derek said. “Okay? Just kiss me.”

So Stiles did. He kissed Derek until his lips were numb from the scrape of his stubble, until his tongue tingled, until his meager strength ran out and his knees trembled. Derek helped ease him into a more comfortable, seated position, then held him with arms draped over his shoulders.

“You should probably head home, soon,” Derek murmured into his hair.

“I don’t know if I can drive,” Stiles said. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts like wheels spinning deep in mud; and despite the hard wood beneath him, he was so comfortable.

“Rest then,” Derek said. “You’re safe. I’ll do what I can to speed up your recovery.”

“Will I see you more, now?” Stiles asked, jaw popping around a yawn.

“I’ve never been far,” Derek chuckled. “But yeah, if you want, I’ll stick around more.”

With heavy eyes, Stiles muttered, “I do. I always want you to.”

 

###

 

“Stiles?!”

He blinked through the rush of adrenaline bolting through is veins, threw himself into an upright position and immediately reached for the knife strapped at his ankle. Stiles frantic searching, his uphill battle through tunnel vision, floundered briefly before dissipating completely. A pair of hands held his shoulders, thumbs pressing just shy of painful into his neck.

“Easy,” Derek murmured. Stiles melted into his grip on command. “It’s your friend. He’s searching for you.”

“How far out?” Stiles rasped. He scrubbed his face, then covered a yawn with a tingling hand. It was dark, he realized suddenly, and he’d lost time. Scrambling through the last of what he remembered, he could only think of Derek. Touching him, kissing him, curling up against him. “Fuck. What—how long have I—?”

“You’ve been resting a few hours,” the hellhound said. “I’ve been trying to stabilize your body, but your blood loss was so extensive…” He sighed, and Stiles recognized the nuances of Derek’s self-loathing. “The sun only set maybe fifteen minutes ago. Your friend hasn’t been looking for you long, but your phone’s been ringing.”

“Jesus, Der,” Stiles groaned. “You should have, like, told me or something. They already think I’m shady as fuck. You know they threatened me earlier?”

“You left for a reason,” Derek said, _threat_ in the timbre of his growl. “You also have me for a reason.”

And maybe Derek was right; it should not have made Stiles as giddy as it did. “Were you going to let me spend the night out here?” Stiles teased, grinning tiredly over his shoulder.

Shrugging, Derek said, “If it was what you needed.” He slid his hands down Stiles’ shoulder to grip briefly at his biceps before climbing to his feet. “You should probably stop talking to me. He’s nearly within earshot of you.”

With an agreeing nod, Stiles shifted into a more casually seated position, feet rested firmly on the step below, as if he hadn’t been cradled against another body for the last however many hours. Before Derek could pull away, however, Stiles took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

Just as Scott came into view, crashing through the underbrush, Derek kissed his hair.

“Stiles!”

“Right here, Scotty!” he called. He waved, and Scott’s amber gaze flickered barely beyond the tree line, but zeroed in on him immediately.

The silhouette of his shape sailed into the clearing surrounding the front drive of the Hale house, landing hard in a low crouch. His claws left small trenches in the soft earth, and when he stood, his fangs caught the faint moonlight, elongated ears shadows ascending the fluffy mop of his hair. “Dude,” he said, speech slightly encumbered. “Where have you been? We’ve been trying to reach you for hours!”

“Has something happened?” Stiles asked. He reclined back on his arms and stretched his legs before him. “Because unless it’s something urgent, I’d really rather be left alone. I left my phone in the Jeep for a reason.”

Scott’s shoulders sagged. “I heard about this morning,” he said. He took a hesitant step forward, but stopped abruptly. As if channeling his uncertainty directly into the base of Stiles’ skull, they stiffened in sync, their last serious conversation flaring like a grease fire between them.

Instead of buckling beneath the now-familiar shame, Stiles said, “Oh, about how your girlfriend and her father threatened to put me down?”

Derek growled softly from somewhere to Stiles’ left, in the shadows cast by the collapsing patio roof.

Scott perked up as if he heard. He scanned the surrounding area with canid intensity, and took a few deep, focused breaths. Stiles knew he wouldn’t find anything, but the werewolf was perplexed anyway. It happened often enough—Scott would hear or smell something, focus on it for a hot second, then return to whatever he’d been doing before the interruption—and Derek’s warning would be no different. “They didn’t threaten you,” he said. “We’re a team, Stiles. We don’t turn on our own. We’re all just…really worried about you.”

“There’s been a lot of that going around, it seems,” Stiles drawled. “But you weren’t there. Did Allison tell you how it went down, or did Chris? Because either way, they’ve somehow managed to convince my dad that punishing me for a crime I’ve yet to commit—one I never intend to commit, by the way—is somehow acceptable. I mean, they’ve already shunned one terrifically skilled hunter from their midst, why not another?”

“You don’t know about Allison’s aunt, Stiles,” Scott said. “They probably just told you the basics—you’ve been so hostile, no one’s really known how to approach you. Even Lydia skirts the idea of talking to you.”

Licking his lips nervously, Stiles averted his eyes.

“But Allison’s aunt was completely batshit,” the werewolf continued, heedless of how mention of Lydia gutted Stiles. “She was bloodthirsty. She was a one-woman massacre. You want to know why my dad is so skeptical about the animal attacks? Because the animal attack explanation for violent deaths has been exhausted covering up that bitch’s rampage.”

“I follow the code, Scott,” Stiles snapped. “I’ve never deviated from it. I’ve never taken down a mark that wasn’t unanimously declared.”

“You haven’t,” he agreed. “And no one says you have. None of us think you’re a murderer.”

Scoffing, Stiles snapped, “You just think I’ll _become_ one.” He huddled in on himself, drawing his knees and folding his arms across them. Running a hand through his hair, staving off the shame, the self-loathing, the doubt that came with his deal was riptide dragging him further out to sea. Stiles wasn’t sure how much longer he could tread water.

“No,” Scott said. There was a visible shift in how he held himself as he strode across the earthen drive and slid fluidly to sit beside Stiles. It felt like resignation or acceptance, and such a heavy burn hadn’t befallen their shoulders since Scott’s untamed wolf nearly tore Stiles to shreds; the intentional choice of forgiveness, of moving forward together. But Stiles was the shamed one this time, not Scott. “Allison’s aunt is dangerous, and she’s still out there. Do you have any idea what she’d do if she learned Chris and Allison we working with a werewolf? A banshee?”

“No,” Stiles murmured.

“Neither do they,” Scott sighed. “And if the stories about her are true, the moment she turns her attention towards something, that something dies. Its loved ones, too. That puts us all at risk. They don’t know what changed her; what made her so suddenly exceptional or what drove her to abandon the code. They don’t even know if it was completely voluntary. If it wasn’t…”

Burying his head against his arms, Stiles breathed, “Oh, fuck.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Derek interjected, angry hiss slithering through the corners of Stiles’ thoughts.

“Exactly,” Scott said. “That’s what has everyone worried. Because if you turn…”

“Stop,” Stiles begged. Annoyed, he met Scott’s gaze and snarled, “Just stop, okay? I’m not going to turn. I’m not infected with some zombie virus or something.”

Scott’s brows pinched, and his eyes were open wounds as he watched Stiles. “Do you have an explanation for what’s happened to you, then? How you’ve gotten so good? How you’ve managed to survive everything you have?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles lied, feigning helplessness. “I don’t know, okay? I really don’t. I just go in there, do what I have to do, and hope for the best.” He stood then, channeling his accelerating heart, his building anxiety into a frustrated pacing; like his back was against a wall and he didn’t know where to turn. “Everyone keeps hounding me about this, but I don’t have any answers, okay? I don’t. I don’t know why I’m so good. I just—after Victoria, after almost losing my dad, I just—I couldn’t—I had to be better. I couldn’t lose anyone else, so, I just…I just…” He exaggerated his stuttering breath, forced tears he didn’t need to shed. His sudden lightheadedness was genuine, though. “I’m not a murderer, Scott. I’d never hurt you, or Allison, or Lydia or anyone. I…you’re my family. I love you guys.”

“Your heart’s beating like crazy,” Scott commented, rising to his feet. He reached for Stiles, but Stiles recoiled with a choked off whine. “Stiles, seriously. Calm down, dude; you might faint. No one thinks you’re bad or dangerous. We just have no idea what’s happened to you, and it’s really close to what happened to Allison’s aunt, okay? We just want to keep an eye on you, want you to be honest with us. We can’t help you if you keep shutting us out.”

“How am I supposed to let you in if you don’t trust me anymore?” Stiles asked. “My dad can’t even look me in the eye without radiating disappointment. How am I supposed to feel safe if Chris and Allison are threatening to put me down, when I have to watch everything I do so it isn’t interpreted as _turning_?”

“They’re not,” Scott insisted. “They’re _not_ , Stiles, I promise.”

“Like you’d ever go against them,” Stiles snapped. “You’re in love with her. You’d never betray her.”

Scott sighed and let his hand drop. “You’re right,” he said. “I wouldn’t. But I wouldn’t let her hurt you, either.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me, Scott,” Stiles pleaded. “I just want to do what I’ve always done, you know? I just want to keep you guys safe, keep Beacon Hills safe. That’s it. That’s all I want.”

“We didn’t know what happened to me at first,” Scott offered. “I didn’t remember getting bitten—thought it was a nightmare after getting trampled by that herd of deer—and it took us forever to figure it out, for me to control it. Maybe something similar has happened to you. Something happened to change you, and you just don’t remember. We don’t know what it is yet, and you’re still learning to control it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. Sniffling, he wiped his face on his sleeve. “Yeah, maybe.”

“We’ll talk to Deaton. See if he’s found anything.”

“You’ve brought this up to him?” Stiles asked.

“It was one of the first things we did when you started withdrawing,” Scott responded.

And Stiles was legitimately shocked by that.

It must have been clear in his face or his scent, because Scott’s smile went soft at the edges, fond and warm. “We love you, dude. We’ve been trying to figure this out from the start.”

“Scott, I—”

“Stop,” Scott said, waving him off. “Remorse is a bad smell on you. It’s fine.” After a beat, he added, “Your dad’s pretty worried, though—he said you stormed out really upset.”

“I did. I’m still upset. I don’t know if I really…”

“Just let him know you’re okay,” Scott suggested. When he approached a second time, Stiles let him; and when Scott hugged him, Stiles hugged him back. “You _are_ okay, right? Really?”

“Aside from being freaked the fuck out and hardly sleeping?” Stiles asked, twitchy laughter staggering his words. “Yeah, I’m great.”

“Let us help you.” Scott pressed his face against Stiles’ hairline and scented him. He only let the wolf slip occasionally and never around the parents. For Scott to do it now suggested a gravity Stiles had never even considered, and guilt gutted him anew. “Don’t push us away anymore.”

“I need time,” Stiles confessed, and it was the most honest he’d been with Scott in ages. He stepped out of his embrace, and the werewolf let him go after only a moment’s hesitation. The agony in doing so was so poignant, Stiles felt it, too. “I’m—I’m going through a lot right now. I was attacked in my own home with my father as some impotent bystander. I’m still really uneasy. I just need time, okay? I need to sort through everything that’s happened the last few weeks.”

“Yeah, okay,” Scott readily agreed. “I get that. I’ll let the others know, though, alright? So they give you some space.”

“Thanks, Scotty.”

“But contact your dad. He’s your dad, you know? He should hear it from you.”

Nodding, Stiles said, “I will. Yeah, I will.”

“Okay,” but Scott didn’t seem inclined to go just yet.

“I’ll stay here a while longer, I think,” Stiles explained haltingly. “I’ll head home soon; I promise. I’ll text my dad, too. I just need to be alone a bit more.”

Scott wasn’t entirely convinced, but Stiles didn’t give any particular reason to be questioned. His erratic heart was from stress, not dishonesty. The misery in his scent and posture wasn’t guilt, but a sense of betrayal. Bless Scott McCall and how generously he gave the benefit of the doubt.

With a resigned sigh, the werewolf said, “Alright. Be safe. Call me sometime. I miss you.” He knew not to linger, not to expect more from Stiles than he’d already given. He disappeared the way he came, melding into the shadows until even the glow of his amber eyes faded from view.

“He’s a good friend,” Derek said.

“Yeah, he is,” Stiles agreed.

“And you’re a good actor.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Stiles said, “Yeah, I am.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Derek grow closer.

“Come on, Stilinski! You can do better than that!”

Once upon a time, Stiles relished Lydia cheering for him. Sitting beside Allison in the bleachers, she’d hold signs with hearts and glitter and big block letters with his and Scott’s jersey numbers—after she’d dumped Jackson, of course. Now, lacrosse games weren’t particularly important, and Lydia didn’t always have time to sit in the stands when Stiles and Scott played. Still, her voice pierced through the sound of Stiles’ stampeding heart and labored breath—it just sounded like a jeer this time, not so much a cheer.

Still, when Allison lunged and he successfully dodged her attack, Lydia whooped loudly and whistled with her fingers in her mouth.

With a tired laugh, Stiles straightened from his hunched stance and leaned back until his vertebrae popped. He and Allison had been incessantly sparring for at least an hour, clashing ruthlessly under Chris’ barked orders and the Sheriff’s coaching.

Across their makeshift ring, Allison also stretched and regrouped. Her dimpled smile was bright as she grabbed a water bottle. Drinking deeply, she turned to Stiles and gave him a thumbs-up.

He laughed and opened a water bottle of his own, chugging at least half of it before taking a gasping breath. Sweat stuck his clothes to him like a second skin, the lingering humidity after rain suffocating with its heat. The noxious smell of ink only intensified with how drenched he and his clothes were. His face and clothes were covered with marker streaks and dots, places he’d have been slashed or stabbed were they using real weapons. Stiles’ skill and endurance had improved immensely since he first started training, but he was a joke compared to Allison, who’d been training since she was a girl. How they were pitted against each other was incredibly unfair, and Stiles was pretty sure Allison was letting him land strikes.

“Ready to up the ante?” Chris asked. When he entered their sparring space, he carried a metal case with him. Kneeling, he set it down on the soft earth and snapped open the latches. Inside, nestled safely in foam, were two sets of kunai, and Stiles whined, high and petulant.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t think you can hack it?” Allison teased.

Aghast, Stiles said, “I’d rather not hack anything, thank you very much. You’re gonna slice me to pieces!”

“No,” she drawled, playfully looking everywhere but at Stiles.

Chris laughed. “Part of training is learning how to take and mitigate pain.”

The Sheriff intervened then, and Stiles had never been so grateful for his father. “Isn’t this a little much?” he asked, eyebrow raised skeptically. “It’s one thing to teach them technique, but is it really worth letting them tear each other up? What if something comes up, and they’re injured? Stiles barely made it through without support.”

“They’re dulled,” Chris said. “Unless they use excessive force, injuries shouldn’t be deep or severe.” Narrowing his disapproving eyes, he nodded to Stiles and said, “A little pain might make a more cautious fighter.”

Stiles scoffed. “I’ve suffered plenty of pain, thanks.” He rotated a sore shoulder, grimacing as the salt in his sweat-soaked shirt rubbed against a swatch of sensitive skin that felt suspiciously like road rash. A particularly smart barrage of punches left his face aching and his chest a veritable garden of blossoming bruises. Specific lines of muscles burned while others dully ached, and Stiles had already limped through two cramps in his calf while trying to parry Allison’s attacks.

“You still make careless mistakes,” Allison chimed in unhelpfully. “I could have made countless killing blows with how often you leave yourself open.”

“Thanks, Ally,” Stiles groused.

“You’re not bad,” she emphasized. “You just need to be better.”

“I agree,” Lydia announced, approaching the from her spectator’s seat. “Stiles needs to tighten up his game.”

“I currently hold the record for most monsters slain,” Stiles objected. “In case anyone has forgotten!”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, by dumb luck!”

“I have skills!” Stiles insisted. He searched the group beseechingly for support, but there was none to be found. “I’m skilled!”

Allison folded her arms and canted her hips, staring Stiles down with the weight of her exasperation and skepticism. “Grab the kunai, Stiles. We’re doing this.” The ink marking her skin and clothes was discouragingly sparse—Stiles might have been agile enough to dodge several of her attacks, but his accuracy in striking was abysmal. Allison, however, was a marksman, and Stiles’ athletic shirt would never be salvaged.

Pouting, he said, “You’re gonna slaughter me.”

“Only if you let me,” she said. She approached the case and grabbed a pair of the kunai. With her fingers in the handle loops, she swung them around like a cowboy with a Colt before snapping them into a firm, defensive grip. “You can either face me with weapons of your own, or unarmed. It’s up to you.”

“Lydia,” Stiles pleaded. “Help me out here, will ya?”

Shaking her head, Lydia raised her hands and took cautious backward steps out of the sparring ring.

“Dad?”

The Sheriff shook his head and sighed, but also backed away from where Stiles and Allison would combat.

Chris was useless as ever and only grabbed the case. Without preamble, he tossed the remaining two kunai to Stiles and backed away like everyone else. Stiles barely managed to catch them, fumbling gracelessly before somehow saving them from crashing to the ground.

“Ready?” Allison asked.

“No,” Stiles blurted, honestly.

“Does a monster ever wait until you’re ready?” she challenged.

Stiles snapped, “Of course not! But I also don’t worry about hurting a monster!”

She laughed then, head thrown back and shoulders shaking. “You think you’ll hurt me?”

With a frown, Stiles twirled the blades into a similar hold as hers and said, “I’d like to think I might.”

Giggling sweetly, she said, “Here. I’ll let you come at me first, let you be on the offensive for a second or two.”

“How generous of you,” Stiles drawled, but he rushed her anyway.

Training was training; it was the only safe place to push limits, test new methods, and master proven techniques. It was the only way to gauge their progress, if any was gained. Exhausted and frustrated, Stiles played the role of an average human with average human abilities, and therefore had to practice under Chris and Allison’s guidance. He took the hits and the tumbles, the jabs and the falls, all in the name of maintaining his farce. Neither he nor anyone else in their group had to hunt or face danger, not for the next few months anyway; not with Derek and his demonic powers.

Allison practically danced out of Stiles’ reach and the tips of her kunai raked down Stiles’ back. Granted, it didn’t hurt, not really, and it certainly didn’t break skin, but it was a hell of a reminder of the stakes. Chris wasn’t wrong about giving them weapons to practice. Stiles staggered briefly, but it was enough for Allison to close their meager distance and hit him across the face with her weapon-reinforced fist.

Stiles reeled, but rallied quickly. When Allison lunged again, he was ready, and easily delivered a distracting strike before throwing her to the ground. Allison may have been more skilled, but Stiles still had her in weight and height, and he had no problem using it to overpower her however he could. It was training, after all, and most everything was fair game. He really shouldn’t have been surprised when she threw dirt in his face, but he was, and she hit him hard in the stomach before slashing his side in his fleeting blindness.

Again, it wasn’t exactly painful, but it was frustrating.

“Damn it, Ally!”

“On your toes, Stilinski!”

Still blinking away dirt from his tearing eyes, Stiles’ movements devolved into lurching and flailing, complete evasion while he tried to clear his vision. His eyes burned. Allison was only a vague shape of fair skin and colorful gym clothes, so when she closed in for a killing blow, both of them were surprised when Stiles blocked it by entangling their kunai with a lucky swing.

“Not bad,” she said. When Stiles swung the second kunai, she locked it with hers; intentionally, unlike Stiles. “Not good, either.”

But then Stiles head-butted her, and she staggered back. Stiles staggered, too, unprepared for how disoriented he’d become as well. He knew she’d recover faster, would rush him the moment she could. What he didn’t expect was the bone-rattling roar that echoed through his skull, or how Allison’s beautiful face twisted into a grey, withered, and fanged thing surging for his throat. He threw his arms up to protect his face, the kunai along his arms to protect his flesh, and the blades crashed. Allison’s beast face leered into Stiles’, snarling and spitting, its throat a black chasm of rotating teeth. A long, forked tongue slithered around the curve of his cheek and down his neck, searing his skin as it went.

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real._

The deafening scream quaked Stiles’ knees, and somewhere in the chaos, he lost his footing.

The blades suddenly slipped, and Allison’s weight against Stiles’ teetering stance dragged the kunai down the length of his arm, cutting cloth and skin alike. Blood welled, bright and warm, a crimson flood staining the grey of his shirt. Allison jerked away, and Stiles fell flat on his ass. Watching him, horrified, Allison was suddenly herself again.

“Holy shit! Stiles!”

“I’m okay!” he said, automatically. If he stammered over his words, no one mentioned it. Iron flooded his senses, even more powerful than his sweat, but he hardly felt the wound. Chris and the Sheriff crowded around him, but he was shaking too hard to ward them off. Somewhere behind them, Allison said, “It was an accident. I don’t know what happened.”

Chris delicately rolled up Stiles’ sleeve and inspected the wound while the Sheriff used a towel to mop the blood running down his arm. “It doesn’t look bad,” Chris said, “but we should have Melissa take a look. Probably need stitches.”

“Oh, my God. Stiles, I am so sorry,” Allison said. Shame made her doe eyes teary, and her bottom lip trembled, but Stiles didn’t think she had reason to be so upset. They were training, and Stiles fully anticipated getting hurt. Though, given the talk she and her father gave him, her fear might have been validated.

But Stiles knew that if Allison and Chris were going to intentionally hurt or kill him, it wouldn’t be with his father and Lydia as witnesses. At least, he hoped not.

Lydia, who stood beside her, stopped her from joining her father at Stiles’ side by linking their arms.

With a weak laugh, Stiles teased, “Told you you’d slice me to pieces.”

“This isn’t funny!” Allison snapped. “You could have been really hurt.”

“It’s hilarious,” Stiles insisted. His father held a towel to his arm, and he and Chris helped him to his feet. Other than the bleeding, Stiles felt fine. Tired and sore, but fine. He even held the towel against the wound all by himself after prying his father’s hand away. “Don’t get upset, Ally. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she insisted.

“I know,” he agreed. He kissed her cheek before following his father through the woods to where the cruiser was parked.

 

###

 

Stiles sat on the lid of the toilet in the McCalls’ downstairs bathroom while Melissa stitched his arm: a seven inch cut with twenty overly cautious stitches. The prick of the needle was a distant sensation, something he could forget if he didn’t watch, so he stared at the textured wall and the towels hanging from an attached rack. There were some bleach stains in the terry cloth, some rust-red stains. They’d all been treated in this bathroom at some point or another, so it only made sense for the nice towels to be stashed away from the blood. Still, Stiles wished he had something better to look at than a ratty scrap of towel representing everything he wanted to ignore.

The effects of demonic energy, of carrying a soul to be violently reaped, were fathomless. He could never definitively say where his exhaustion originated. Eating less, sleeping less, working harder, fretting more, faking more. Any number of factors could cause or at least contribute to the soul-sickness weighing down his limbs and darkening his thoughts. His life was once a whirlwind spinning on the knife’s edge of abrupt end. He could lose anyone he loved on any given hunt. It only took one mistake, one miscalculation, one underestimation. Each time he pressed hands over a bleeding wound, screaming through tears for Chris or Lydia to stay awake, each time he helped carry an unconscious body to safety were randomly accessed memories, flicking through a slideshow with every prick of Melissa’s curved needle. Somehow, though, they weren’t as immediate despite their immediate presence. His emotions, the fear and the nausea that typically came with those memories just didn’t.

Maybe acceptance settled before acknowledgement. No one lived the life of a hunter every long. Stiles might have the shortest of their group, but at least he knew it—and he had limitless resources to assure he’d be the first of them to go.

Melissa sent him home with basic wound care instructions Stiles didn’t need to be retold. He smiled and nodded—he even hugged her back when she wrapped her arms around him and reminded him to be more careful—and was grateful to fall into the passenger seat of his dad’s cruiser to head home.

The silence he and his father carried into the house wasn’t a burdensome one—nothing near to the weight of when Victoria died, or worse, when his mother died—but it was bathed in a similar bone-deep weariness. A training accident shouldn’t share the even a shadow of the gravity of death, but it somehow did. When Stiles automatically headed towards the stairs, his dad let him go with a brief pat on the back and a casual reminder that he was there, if Stiles needed him. Stiles gave him a nod and sincere thanks, then lugged himself upstairs and into the bathroom.

He ran the hot water of the shower before unceremoniously stripping. Dropping his clothes in a heap, a stone of dread knotted his stomach. The last time he’d taken note of how quickly the bathroom filled with steam, he’d written a letter and held a razor blade. It felt so far away despite how recent it actually was: less than a week.

Meeting his reflection’s gaze, he rubbed his chest, that weird nebulous place that seemed to connect he and Derek, marked coincidently by where a giant spider had impaled him. Tired became less a temporary ailment and more an assimilated aspect of his personality, and he was barely an adult. He did, however, bear the weight of knowledge: knowing when he would die, knowing what awaited him beyond that threshold, knowing that, in crossing said threshold, he’d be changed. A death and a rebirth, but far more sinister and altogether more tragic.

He climbed into the shower.

He kept Melissa’s carefully wrapped gauze bandage clear of the water as he punishingly scrubbed away the dirt and blood, heedless of the countless abrasions and bruises marring his skin. A lot less blood, he realized, than normal; training, after all, and not a real battle. Diluted rust-reds and clay-browns, with dingy grey suds, swirled hypnotically down the drain; and again, Stiles recognized he was too far in his own head when he found it analogous with his tumultuous emotions. Even then, he only turned off the water after his fingertips began to prune.

After clearing the fogged mirror with a careless wipe of his hand, Stiles scrutinized what he could see of his face. He didn’t have the eyes of a dead man. He didn’t appear particularly sick or ailing, not like his mother in those final few weeks. Maybe it was all in his head, like pretty much everything else. He changed the bandage over his fresh stitches, the gauze dampened and useless from his time in a makeshift sauna. With one hand holding his towel around his hips, he gathered his dirty clothes and braved the chill of the house towards his room.

Laundry went into the hamper, and Stiles rifled through his dresser for something warm to wear. Whatever tethered him to Derek prickled, so when he turned and found the hellhound in his bed, he wasn’t particularly surprised. The shape of him under the covers—his shoulders, his tapering waist, how one knee was bent and am arm shoved beneath the pillow—was different, but not altogether an unpleasant sight. How he kept his back to Stiles was nice too; he hoped Derek to be in whatever restful state he could manage, whatever sleep-like thing a hellhound could enjoy. He hoped Derek felt safe.

“Stiles…?”

Completely unaware of how long he stood staring, Stiles managed a meek, “…Derek?”

“Your heart’s racing,” Derek grumbled, though there was an audible note of worry. He shifted beneath the thick comforter until he rested on a bent elbow. He scrubbed his face—such a human gesture when roused from slumber, and it made Stiles smile—before looking over his shoulder with concern contorting his handsome features. When the blankets slid down his bare back, they revealed a stark, black, triple spiral between the wings of his shoulders and an endless expanse of flawless skin.

Stiles’ hand spasmed, and he nearly dropped his towel. “It’s fine,” he stammered, looking away to hide how his ruddy cheeks went aflame. If his voice was a little higher, he was just surprised. “I was just surprised, is all,” he insisted. “To find you there. In bed.” He found a pair of underwear and stepped into them while still wearing the towel. Modesty preserved, he dragged the terrycloth away from his hips and over his wet hair to try to dry it better.

Derek hummed indifferently, then turned over to face Stiles, exposing his beautifully, perfectly defined chest and abs through the flutter of bedclothes. The hound absently licked his lips, though how intensely he watched Stiles gave it context; Stiles’ face flushed hotter. Possibility made his skin itch. Stiles desperately wished the empathy worked both ways, because knowing Derek wanted him that way would have done wonders for his nerves. As it stood, he wasn’t sure why Derek stared at him so intently—it’s not like he hadn’t walked in on him fresh from the shower before—only that he did. Hell, Allison had kicked his ass, and Derek might have just been studying his injuries.

Stiles hoped he wasn’t.

With no appetite and still hours before he would typically go to bed, Stiles awkwardly rummaged through his closet for the softest and most worn hoodie he owned—some ratty thing with stretched sleeve cuffs and a missing drawstring. Miraculously, despite its age, it still fit him well enough to stave off the chill, enveloping the shaking body he couldn’t control. Standing in the middle of his bedroom, he pulled the sleeve hems over his knuckles and tried not to stare at how Derek laid in his bed like an invitation. Their relationship had taken an intense turn, and though it was certainly for the better as far as Stiles was concerned, perhaps another such intense turn wasn’t for the best. Derek, shirtless, in his bed did nothing but inspire such thoughts, the stuff of his fantasies made flesh and questionably accessible. Heat pooled warm in his belly, and his dick gave a half-hearted twitch. But the thought of sharing the suddenly too-small bed, and a surge of emotion, tangled like seaweed at high tide, tightened his chest.

A crease of concentration furrowed Derek’s brow, and with a sigh, he said, “Just come to bed.” Fuck, he knew. Of course he knew. Derek could feel every conflicting emotion cycling through Stiles’ heart. Of course he’d feel the sudden rush of want—something Stiles hadn’t the faintest idea how to tame. Of course he’d feel the simultaneous reservation—something Stiles couldn’t help. Derek’s expression softened right around the time Stiles identified a feeling as shame. “Stiles.” Pulling back the blankets, he said, “You’re exhausted. You’re hurting. Come lay down.”

His limbs didn’t feel like his own as he obeyed, beckoned to his own bed. Derek moved back towards the wall as Stiles climbed beneath the sheets. The warmth the hound left behind seeped into his bones, and the faint tremors wracking his body finally eased. Derek’s palm against his cheek loosened a knot that had formed in his stomach.

“Better?” Derek asked, stroking his cheek.

Sighing softly, Stiles reached for Derek, tentatively touching the ridges of his bare flank. His apprehension was ridiculous, because falling asleep in Derek’s arms wasn’t new. Derek’s body pressed against him, heavy and warm, safe, wasn’t new. Not really. Not enough to justify the nerves sparking through his insides and pushing up against his throat. “You usually wear your shirt and jeans,” he said, failing in his attempt to make conversation. Because that was the difference—there had never been so much skin between them. The blankets covered them, but Stiles traced the cutting divots of muscle beneath Derek’s flawless skin, didn’t have to see to wonder; he didn’t dare inch low enough to learn just how bare Derek was. But each caress seemed to ebb the tension Stiles felt coiled there, as if Derek shared his uncertainty. Stiles hoped he did. He didn’t want to navigate such uncharted waters alone.

“You’re covered in bruises and abrasions,” Derek answered. He released a breath, arching ever so faintly into Stiles’ touch, something that still amazed Stiles—that Derek could want his hands on him. “And you said you—” He stopped, but when Stiles prompted him by scooting closer, he continued, “—you said you feel safe with me. I thought the denim would aggravate your injuries.” His hand slid down Stiles’ neck, then under the thin hoodie to his bare shoulder, pushing the material down and away. “This probably will, too,” he added, unzipping its front.

His voice rasped through his dry throat, but Stiles managed a small, “Yeah. You’re probably right,” and slithered out of the hoodie with Derek’s help. He didn’t care when Derek tossed it to the floor.

The heel of his palm rested over the nicking, circular scar of Rosier’s bite, and Derek murmured, “Your heart’s still racing,”

“Different reasons this time,” Stiles admitted. He tapped a nervous rhythm against Derek’s hip, equally grateful and disappointed when an absent stretch of his pinky found no elastic band of underwear. Derek was naked. The swelling head of Stiles’ cock dragged against the soft cotton of his underwear, and he tried to will it under his control before he could become ashamed or embarrassed.

“Same reason,” the hound corrected, thumb tracing his clavicle. He inched closer warily, as if bracing for an abrupt or violent rejection. “Different stage.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed. “That.”

Derek hoisted himself on an elbow, and Stiles intuitively rolled onto his back so they could slot together. Hip to hip, Stiles realized only the thin layer of his underwear separated them, and Derek’s cock throbbed a hot line against him through the cotton. A pang of regret arced through his chest, settling between his own legs to ache in answer, indecisiveness plaguing the mind of a body already decided. Derek leaned over him carefully, and how he just barely dragged his lips over Stiles’ mouth could hardly be called a kiss, but it sent Stiles to shivers anyway. “Is this okay?” he asked, nosing him. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” Stiles managed. “This is—” His words hitched when Derek pulled him those scant inches closer, forcing Stiles’ arm into the small space between his elbow and chest. How his hips angled allowed Derek to deliberately slide his leg up the length of Stiles’ until he hooked his knee around him. Were Stiles to wrap his other arm around Derek, he could pull the hound atop him fully with little effort—a suggestion Derek could have, in fact, been making with his body—a realization that broke the horizon of his nebulous lust. He touched Derek’s back, stroked the skin between his shoulder blades where he knew a black mark existed but couldn’t feel, and with his other hand, he followed the sloping lines of Derek’s side. “This is good.”

“Good,” Derek murmured, then kissed Stiles again.

Stiles tangled their ankles, and rose from the mattress to meet Derek’s kiss, his body, the heat of his flesh. His fingernails scraped Derek’s back where his arm was hooked beneath the hound, but with his free hand, he followed the line of Derek’s jaw, then slid his fingers into his hair. There, he held on through the flaring shocks of Derek’s hand ghosting across his over-sensitive skin.

When his tongue laved into Stiles’ mouth, his kiss wet and enveloping, Derek’s thumb swirled the edge of his nipple until it was a pert bud for his pinching fingers. Stiles moaned into Derek’s mouth, then sucked a wet gasp as he arched further into the contact. Derek suckled Stiles’ bottom lip around a smirk and hummed smugly.

“Sorry,” Stiles stammered, suddenly mortified. “I didn’t know I liked that so much.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of things you don’t know you like,” Derek agreed.

Pouting, Stiles said, “I’ve tried things. You know. Alone things. So there’s some stuff I know I like. But it’s different when you do it.”

Humming, this time intrigued, Derek murmured, “And what are some of the things you know you like?” Blunt, human teeth bit the edge of his jaw before kissing a trail toward his pulse point. There, Derek nibbled and sucked until the skin blossomed into a bruise, and Stiles mewled. And when he dragged his damp lips down the length of his neck, Stiles simply turned his head obligingly.

His desperate grip abandoned Derek’s midnight locks and, instead, twisted in the fabric of the pillow beneath his head. Stiles’ heart slammed arhythmically against his ribs, resounding through flesh and muscle beaten sore from sparring with Allison, but he couldn’t bear telling Derek to stop. How his body twitched and jolted, responding like a live wire to wherever Derek touched him, brought sweet pain with its pleasure. “I, uh,” He bit his lip and whimpered when Derek nipped sharply at his clavicle and pinched his nipple again in tandem. “I like this. Touching. I think I’m touch-starved, actually. I like the biting.” Derek raked his nails down his ribs and his back bowed. He barely contained his cry. “That,” he panted. “I liked that.”

“Good,” Derek purred. “Can I do more?”

“Do more?” Stiles repeated, dumbly. “Like what?”

“Like this.” Derek’s hot hot tongue swirled around the soft skin of his nipple before biting him just enough to hurt. It was sharper than the pinch, and Stiles choked on a gasp. But Derek just licked the tender skin as if in apology.

“Yeah,” Stiles managed. “Yeah, that’s good. That’s perfect.”

“And this?” Derek asked. Before Stiles could get clarification of any kind, he straddled him. His movements were just as fluid, just as graceful as when he bled through shadow, and perched as he was, balanced just so, Derek was a comfortable, settling weight. The blanket fell away behind him, and enough light smattered into the room to highlight the sloping plains of Derek’s stunning body. Hair as dark night gently shadowed his chest and formed a thick, tantalizing line from his navel to his hard cock arching toward his belly. The rush of cold air without the blanket prickled Stiles’ flesh, and he resolutely stared at the ceiling to ignore Derek’s dick, despite how its heat and gentle throb pressed right against his balls. His warm hands clasped Stiles’ waist, a firm touch to gain his attention. “Is this okay?”

Initially, he wanted to argue, wanted to somehow dissuade Derek from progressing whatever relationship was forming between them. In fact, he opened his mouth to do so, but Stiles’ words died in his throat as Derek grabbed him by the jaw and forced him to meet his gaze. “Y-yeah,” he stammered beneath its intensity. Something shorted in his head, disconnecting him from the moment while simultaneously drowning him in it. He rested his tingling hands on Derek’s bare hips. “This is good.” When his cock throbbed, he whined, and his cheeks flushed when he felt pre-cum dampen his underwear.

The severe red ringing Derek’s eyes was at odds with the easy quirk of his lips. He seemed pleased, but not amused; hungry, but not predatory. Despite how his heart continued to recklessly throw itself against his ribs, Stiles was somehow put at ease. Derek rolled his body in a wave of delicious heat to lean down and kiss him again, swallowing Stiles’ answering moan. The softness of his lips, the prickle of his stubble, the taste of his tongue were all distraction from any first-time jitters; and Derek did it intentionally, growling on a faint exhale and clutching Stiles possessively. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said. He kissed Stiles’ forehead tenderly. “Or if I hurt you.”

“Okay,” Stiles breathed, and nodded a bit for emphasis.

Derek stopped asking permission after that, much to Stiles’ halting relief. When the hound braced himself with a hand beside Stiles’ head, it felt completely natural to meet his searching lips with a kiss, to angle his face with a finger to his jaw and taste his soft growls. Stiles didn’t notice his small, answering moans until Derek pulled away with a fond chuckle, and nuzzled noses with him. Stiles’ flushed with fresh self-consciousness, but Derek said, “No. I like it.” He gently inched his free hand down Stiles’ body with small, scratching motions, sizzling touches that had Stiles quivering beneath him. He straightened his back and rocked his hips, pressing against the clothed shape of Stiles’ dick until his own breath hitched. “I like hearing you,” and Stiles saw how he swallowed thickly around the words, how his throat bobbed.

“I sound like terrible porn,” Stiles panted, despite how the man on top of him looked like porn.

“You sound like you enjoy me touching you,” Derek corrected. He hooked teasing fingers beneath the band of Stiles’ underwear and just barely caressed the tip of his dick. The gentle, ghosting touch had Stiles’ chest heaving, his hips bucking up against Derek’s solid form. “Do you?”

“Fuck,” Stiles’ hissed, clutching desperately at Derek. Then he whined, sliding his hands up rippling abs and glistening pectorals, “Yes. God—Fuck, I’m gonna come so fucking fast...”

Huffing a small laugh, Derek pressed into Stiles’ questing hands. He groaned, “Do you want to slow down?” He traced the length of the elastic until he found seams near either of Stiles’ hips, then snapped it playfully. “Can I take these off?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answered quickly. “Yeah. Take ‘em off.” He lifted his hips off the mattress just enough for Derek to shimmy cotton down his hips, and once they were past his knees, he clumsily kicked them down the rest of his legs and away. Derek, however, remained kneeling above him, waiting patiently to return to his seat of Stiles’ hips. When Stiles settled back against the mattress, a bed he never imagined ever sharing with another, he couldn’t tear his eyes from the vision of Derek over him. Derek Hale, his Derek, in the very naked flesh, with him. It briefly distracted him from his own nakedness, how repulsed he typically was by his own body, drinking in Derek’s stunning visage like a man starved.

Derek seemed to drink in the sight of him in turn. His eyes were red-ringed, his jaw tight. Stiles couldn’t only describe the pinch in his brow as apprehension, though the word was too severe. A broad, warm palm pressed firmly against the bottom ridge of his ribs, right above the soft flesh of his belly. The touch eased the fluttering, quivering muscles beneath it and pinned Stiles like a collected butterfly. Derek captured Stiles’ glazing eyes with his own flaring ones, then eased himself back into the cradle of Stiles’ hips. Again, his cock nestled against the swell of Stiles’ balls, but it was skin on skin, heat on heat this time.

Stiles bit his lip, but still moaned. His toes curled. If his mind wandered too far, if he stared too long, he’d come.

As if using his hand to brace himself, though he had no true need to, Derek gave a gentle, experimental roll of his hips, lifting himself just enough to drag himself against Stiles’ weeping dick. The pre-cum matting Stiles’ happy trail slickened anew, and with his free hand, Derek collected what was there and smeared it between them.

The breath Stiles inadvertently held hostage broke free as a hiss. He didn’t trust himself to move more than his hands, and even then, he could only rest his sweaty palms against Derek’s thighs. He felt the corded muscle flex and twitch beneath him as Derek rolled his hips again. The hound wrapped his hand around their dicks, a lose fist made wet with Stiles’ pre-cum, and thrust into it, the hot, slick drag of his cock against the underside of Stiles’.

Derek never stopped watching Stiles’ face.

Stiles couldn’t stop staring back.

True to Derek’s word, he took it slow. His movements were calculated, intentional, applying pressure and friction just so. The ridges of his palm, its grip on their aligned cocks, the control of his coiling and uncoiling thighs. Stiles felt his uncut cock bump and slip against ridge of the head of his dick, and the weight of pleasure settled heavy and hot low in his pelvis. He rocked his hips infinitesimally to meet Derek’s rhythm, enough to contribute without making the mattress squeak. Despite the tingling in the base of his spine, despite the dumb circles his thumbs traced along the inside of Derek’s thighs, it was the flush of the hound’s cheeks that caught Stiles’ attention the most. How sweat beaded along his hairline, the gentle ‘o’ of his mouth as he panted with exertion, his utter focus. And Stiles...Stiles was the object of that focus. Stiles’ pleasure. Stiles’ body. Stiles.

Stiles choked, more than said his name, because everything in his core was wound so tight. “Derek...”

With an aborted little nod, Derek swiped his thumb over the head of Stiles’ dick, smearing more of his wetness until they were thoroughly slick. He dragged his free hand down Stiles’ heaving gut until the wedge of his thumb and forefinger cradled the base of Stiles’ dick. He didn’t grab him, though, didn’t squeeze to try to postpone Stiles’ cresting orgasm. Derek applied light pressure, and it jolted sensation through Stiles like a shot. As if connecting two sparking wires, less than three strokes later, Stiles’ back bowed off the bed, and he unloaded, sticky and warm, across his stomach and Derek’s fist. His voice caught somewhere in his throat, a reflexive habit of keeping quiet; but his vision whited, and his fingernails dug into the meat of Derek’s thighs.

Above him, the hound growled in his demonic way that resonated in Stiles’ skull and steadily thrusted against and stroked Stiles, spreading what dribbled from his slit down and around their shafts. Stiles, oversensitive and quickly becoming overstimulated, twitched and spasmed with the residual shocks of ecstasy, clawing at Derek’s thighs and mewling desperately for mercy. But Derek was a demon, ultimately, and he tortured Stiles deliciously for the few minutes it took for him to finally come.

How Derek’s back suddenly stiffened, how his nails scratched Stiles’ belly, how his face twisted with shut eyes and clenched jaw—something like an orgasm rippled through Stiles a second time, though only Derek added to the mess pooling in his navel.

Chest heaving, Derek gently stroked Stiles’ hip, careless of the cum he smeared across his skin, as if the touch would somehow bring them both down—and it worked. Stiles returned the favor similarly, drawing idle patterns on Derek’s trembling thighs with the pads of his thumbs, and waited for the hound to finally _finally_ open his beautiful eyes and look at him.

When he did, Derek asked, “Was that okay?”

Stiles smirked, then gritted through the residual ache in his abs to sit up, his chest nearly flush with Derek, who leaned back on Stiles’ thighs to accommodate him. “Yeah,” Stiles breathed, heady and exhausted. He wove his hands through Derek’s damp hair and cupped the back of his skull. Some strange hopeful glean shown in the hound’s seafoam eyes that made Stiles’ chest swell, so he guided him into a sweet, tender kiss, into which Derek breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” Stiles murmured against the hound’s lips.

“I’ll clean us up,” Derek said, and he sounded a little dazed. “You should get settled for sleep.”

“Derek,” Stiles said, a little firmer. He kissed him again, suckling his bottom lip until Derek whined. “Don’t go yet,” he said.

“I’m not leaving,” Derek explained. “I was just—” But he fell silent when Stiles reached into one of the shelves of his headboard and tore several tissues from a nearly-empty box. When Stiles tried to mop up his stomach, Derek took the tissues and did it for him, leaning forward to lavish his kiss-swollen lips with more gentle tongue and affection Stiles willfully sought. Once as free of cum as a handful of tissues could make them, Derek cupped Stiles face and reluctantly pulled away enough to say, “Do you hurt at all?”

Laughing softly, Stiles answered, “Allison kicked my ass, and I feel like Allison kicked my ass.” He stole another kiss, then added, “But this, with you, Derek, I just...” He sighed. “Stay with me?”

The hound nodded, then eased Stiles onto his back with a guiding hand to his chest. He laid beside him, and instead of manhandling Stiles into his arms as he normally did, he curled around Stiles, tucking his nose against Stiles’ neck and breathing deep. “This okay?” he asked, the shape of the words like more kisses. He pulled the blankets up and around them.

“Yeah,” Stiles croaked, throat tight. “This is perfect.”

Hellhounds didn’t sleep, though—Derek had told him that—so while Stiles drifted off into a lazy doze, Derek’s ghosting touch marked and cataloged every bruise, cut, and abrasion littering Stiles’ body. When the touch disappeared, Stiles knew Derek found a scar, a pale swatch of flesh without feeling. It was soothing, having Derek’s hands on him, but he was roused when the hound traced the line of his stitches through the gauze around his arm.

“I got careless,” Stiles offered as explanation.

Derek hummed. “I’m sorry I can’t heal you.”

“S’okay,” Stiles said.

“I don’t like it,” Derek muttered.

Chuckling, Stiles assured, “I’ll be okay. It wasn’t even that deep.”

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Derek said, fond instead of venomous.

And with Derek tucked tight against his side, warm and solid, it was easy to obey.

 

###

 

Something changed, and it dawned on Stiles somewhere in the middle of history class. It struck him so suddenly and consumed him so thoroughly—it was like pieces he’d held all along finally fell into place. His pencil slipped from his grasp. He awkwardly tried to catch it before it hit the ground in some idiotic display of graceless frenzy.

But he caught it.

Scott smirked and gave him a discreet thumbs-up.

“Are you quite alright, Mr. Stilinski?” Mr. Yukimura asked.

“Uh, yeah,” he babbled. “I’m good. Fine. Perfect, actually.”

There weren’t words for it, Stiles realized, puzzling through his emotions instead of his textbook. He couldn’t express how Derek was everything he wanted or the edging doubt in his ability to handle it, to be worthy of it.

It felt like self-sabotage. It felt like Lydia all over again.

The _need_ that rushed through his veins when he thought of Derek’s hands on him reminded him of dirty alleys and spiked drinks, rending flesh and dripping blood. The _ache_ in his chest reminded him of viridian eyes framed with dewy lashes and a plush, trembling lip that whispered his name so sadly. Derek atop him, Derek wanting him, _Derek_ reminded him of everything he shouldn’t have, of everything he didn’t deserve. He’d sold his soul. He was a walking, talking lie. He was destined to become an agent of chaos and anguish, and even before becoming a demon, he’d hurt everyone he loved.

But Stiles wasn’t going to debate _Derek Hale_ about his unworthiness, or the fairness of things, or the existence of a just universe where everyone got exactly what they deserved.

It settled something in Stiles, despite how unsettling it was. To accept something he knew he didn’t deserve, to let himself want something and to let himself had that something…

Derek wanted him just as much as he wanted Derek. Stiles knew it the way he knew Derek would never let him die. And Derek knew everything. Derek was safe. Stiles could have him.

By the time Stiles got home, the sun had long since set, and despite the oncoming crash of a good day well spent, there were still hours to go before he slept. He didn’t regret the time he spent at the McCalls’ immediately after school, nor the nostalgic familiarity with which he stayed for dinner; but he was so used to maintaining an uncharacteristic distance between he and his loved ones, reconnecting was an exhausting task where it had once been as natural as breathing.

Stiles was better—not back to normal, whatever that was, so distant now he couldn’t define it even if he tried—but he was better than he had been in months.

True to his word, Scott vouched for him, and the others in their chosen family gave him room enough to breathe and an absence of judgement under which he could. Visions still haunted him, flashing vividly, intrusively, and unexpectedly—the itching stitches in his arm were testament to that; but Derek was never far, and he didn’t startle quite as badly as he had at the onset. His nights were still fitful, but not nearly as sleepless. Derek grounded him more often than not, the weight of his arms and the warmth of his body enough to ease how violently Stiles’ thoughts and limbs tended to quake. Nightmares still woke him, but Derek would rub his back, murmur assurances into his hair, and lull him into a modicum of rest that let him face the upcoming day. Stiles was as close to happy as he’d been before his father was shot, and more focused, more confident, less burdened.

With his father working another late shift, Stiles returned to an empty house where a single living room table lamp staved off the shadows. He climbed the stairs to his room and was immediately awash with fondness.

Derek sat on his bed, reclined and comfortable against Stiles’ pillows, with a book in his hands. Despite the darkness of the room, Derek’s glowing eyes seemed to allow him to read just the same. It was so domestic, so concrete, it was wondrous. Derek Hale, _his_ Derek Hale, in his bed as if he belonged there.

Stiles felt he did.

“Hey,” he said, unable to wrangle the stupid grin splitting his face. He crossed the room and turned on the desk lamp, a softer light than the overhead one in consideration of Derek’s eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be here.” Though he’d hoped he would be. “Were you waiting up for me?”

Shaking his head, Derek didn’t bother looking up from his book right away, but Stiles immediately recognized the black and white cover. “You usually come home eventually, and you weren’t in any distress, so I didn’t see a reason to intrude.” When he did look up, he watched Stiles with a new softness easing the usually severe lines of his face. It was new for Stiles, anyway; he noticed them at every turn, a fresh discovery every time. With their newfound intimacy came a newfound affection. “Did you have fun with Scott?”

“You knew where I was?” Stiles asked, impressed.

Gesturing to some vague space in the center of his chest, Derek said, “You have a distinct lightness when you’re around him.”

Stiles laughed. “Yeah, we had a good time.” He sat on the bed, and when he leaned close, Derek obliged him with a sweet, lingering kiss. “Missed you, though.”

Derek scoffed, though the color rising in his cheeks belied his dismissal. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, but he sounded fond.

Stiles didn’t mind the gentle teasing, the levity in Derek’s rough voice. He liked it, loved it, in fact. He was amazed to have this: Derek, in his bed; Derek, in his company; Derek, receptive and returning Stiles’ adoration.

_There should be just one safe place_

_in the world, I mean_

_this world. …_

_You, the moon. You, the road. You, the little flowers by the side of the road._

“Are you waxing poetic again?” And the quirk in Derek’s grin said he already knew.

“No,” Stiles lied. He stood and stretched his arms high until his back popped. How Derek watched him didn’t escape notice, and it felt good to feel wanted. “I’m just tired is all.”

“Might be worthwhile to turn in early,” the hound suggested, as if dismissing any hope of heated touches and frantic kisses.

Digging through his backpack, Stiles said, “Can’t. I have this English paper to write. Due next week, but I don’t exactly keep a regular schedule, you know?”

With a soft hum, Derek closed the book and set it on one of the shelves built into Stiles’ headboard. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said, sliding off the bed and reaching for his boots.

From where he crouched at his opened bag, Stiles frowned. “You don’t have to go. If you don’t want to, I mean. It’s no problem if you stay.”

“I’m nothing but a distraction to you,” Derek said, but he sounded too dejected to be worried about Stiles’ wayward, lustful thoughts of him. He laced up his boots and stood to collect his jacket.

Stiles stood as well and impulsively grabbed Derek’s wrist. “You’re not just a distraction, okay? I enjoy your company, and for more than…you know.”

Derek sighed. The pinch of his brows and the tightness in his jaw spoke volumes to his skepticism, but Stiles thought Derek knew how he felt. His doubt was unsettlingly potent.

Curious, he continued, “I sleep better with you beside me, I feel safer with you around, and—” Stiles stopped, unwilling to coerce Derek even with a plea to stay. “If you want to go, it’s fine, but please don’t do it because you think I don’t want you around, or I’m better off without you, or some equally ridiculous idea. That’s not the case, okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, though he didn’t seem particularly convinced. “I get that. I just have some business to take care of, and then I’ll be back. I’ll bring you some food, if you want?”

“Sure,” Stiles said with a smile. “That’d be awesome. Can I kiss you before you go?”

The hound’s seafoam gaze flicked between Stiles’ eyes and his mouth; and when Stiles nervously licked his lips, Derek’s pupils went wide. What remained of his irises glowed faint scarlet. “You don’t have to ask to kiss me, Stiles,” he murmured.

“Of course I do,” Stiles said easily, quietly. He dragged his grip down Derek’s wrist until he could hold his hand. “I don’t want anything from you you’re not readily and enthusiastically willing to give.”

“You don’t have to ask to kiss me,” Derek repeated. He slid into Stiles’ space the way he bled through shadows, fluid, seamless. He leaned in and nuzzled Stiles’ nose before grazing his lips in a tentative kiss, a question and a promise as if he didn’t already know Stiles’ answer.

But instead of surging into the kiss, instead of standing on his toes and wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck, Stiles just tilted his head and closed his eyes, humming contentedly with each subsequent ghosting kiss. When Derek pushed just a hair harder, Stiles let out a thrilled little gasp, and flicked his tongue against the hound’s bottom lip.

“Don’t ask to kiss me,” Derek said, shivery and wrecked. Stiles didn’t feel much different, but hummed sweetly when Derek’s forehead rested against his. “Just do it. Kiss me if you want to kiss me. Touch me if you want to touch me. Okay?”

“Same,” Stiles agreed. “But only if you promise to tell me when and if you don’t like something. Promise.”

“I promise,” Derek murmured, and he kissed Stiles again, dragging his knuckles along the side of his face. “You promise, too.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I promise.” Stiles barely bit back a smile before he kissed Derek one more time, savoring the plushness of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, how his lips tingled every time. “Go,” he said, stepping away. He still held Derek’s hand. “Go do your thing. I’ll be here—” Then, morosely, “—writing this paper.”

“You’ll do fine,” Derek insisted. “And I’ll be back soon. Sooner if something comes up and you need me.”

Stiles reluctantly released Derek’s hand. “Be safe,” he said, because _I love you_ still felt like too much, too fast. They’d said it once. They knew it was there. It was enough.

“Always,” Derek answered. Then, wisps of darkness rocketed from the floor and swirled around him in a cyclone lacking physical effect. There was no wind, no sound, just the violent whipping of shadows. Before they swallowed him, taking him wherever he needed to go, he smirked at Stiles, and then he was gone.

An abrupt realization nestled into his thoughts at the same time as a new, fresh type of longing settled into his chest: he’d never seen Derek leave him before, not really, not since he acknowledged what Derek meant to him. Whenever they parted, Stiles was either unconscious or the one doing the leaving, like when he’d gone to school that morning. But being left, seeing him go and knowing he’d be gone for some undetermined amount of time, not knowing if he’d come back hurt, was painful. It wasn’t a crippling ache—it wasn’t the sort of thing that would stop him from getting his homework done—but it was enough for him to notice, enough for him to worry.

Was this what Allison felt on a full moon? Was this how his mother felt when his father went to work?

Stiles sighed, reminded himself that nothing could stop or kill a hellhound, and gathered the materials to write his paper. Settling in at his desk and waiting for his laptop to start, he stared at his shadow cast by the desk lamp; its smoky umbra comforted him. When his computer booted, he opened a word processor and began writing.

The assignment was harder than he anticipated and a few hours passed. Before the Nemeton stirred the supernatural pot, he’d have been able to blow through a paper with relative ease, thoughts and arguments translating quickly from inception to page. The sudden onslaught of monsters, his lack of support, and Derek’s absence had taken a toll. Or maybe he was still compromised from his suicide attempt. He should have been analyzing the symbolism of the texts, the representation of women, the social constructs. He should have been developing a cohesive argument and citing pages. Instead, all he could think about was the love Hester must have had for Dimmesdale, or Gatsby’s adoration of and devotion to Daisy. Whether a representation of guilt or the American Dream, that love still existed on the page between these characters.

Several articles he read described them as star-crossed lovers, and Ashteroth’s honeyed voice, sticky and vile, oozed through him, potent enough for him to gag. He and Derek were supposedly star-crossed. Rosier had said it, too. With Derek’s claws in his throat, he’d declared them such. Overcome with dread, Stiles slammed his laptop shut and stared blankly at the corkboard behind his desk while consciously regulating his breathing. The last thing he needed was for Derek to appear in a burst of shadow, fearing for Stiles’ safety. He’d had his moment of weakness, his succumbing to his insecurity and neediness; he couldn’t burden Derek with another.

Unfortunately, Derek did appear, with an urgent surge of inky blackness swirling in his wake. “Stiles?” He dropped a paper bag of take out on the nightstand, and closed the meager distance between them. Spinning the chair so Stiles faced him, he cupped his jaw with both hands and searched his face for distress. The warmth of his demonic energy ebbed through Stiles at their point of contact until his eyes slipped closed.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said, though he didn’t pull away from Derek’s touch.

“You don’t feel fine,” the hellhound remarked. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Stiles sighed. Disappointment furrowed his brows, and he breathed deeply before opening his eyes to Derek’s worried face. When the hellhound stroked his cheeks, he said, “I promise. It’s nothing.”

“I know that’s not true,” the hound said softly. “But you don’t have to tell me everything, either. Just...” He frowned, concerned, then kissed Stiles’ forehead.  “I’ll listen if you need me to.”

“Thanks, Der,” Stiles said. The miles they’d come from where they began reverberated through his solar plexus, hooking deep into his core. Dazed, he watched Derek pull away to grab the take out bag he’d left on the nightstand.

“Got burgers,” he said, as if it were some lame offering, and maybe he thought it was. But Stiles was so overcome by the simple gesture, he struggled to speak. Before he could, Derek added, “I know you’re not hungry, but they’ll reheat well when you are. I’ll put them in the fridge?”

Stiles managed what he could of a smile and said, “Sounds perfect. Thank you.”

Derek nodded, headed downstairs, and Stiles watched him go. He traced the lines of his back, the slight sway of his hips with grateful eyes. Derek’s boots were heavy, but soon enough, Stiles heard nothing at all.

Derek’s ascent was as conspicuous as his descent, and the moment before he entered the room, Stiles blurted, “Was everything Asheroth said true?”

Bewilderment contorted Derek’s handsome face before something closer to unsettled replaced it. “I thought we went over this,” he said diplomatically, but his exasperation was palpable.

“We did,” Stiles answered quickly. “Sort of.” He winced, his yearning evident in the cadence of his speech. “It’s just...”

“What?” Derek asked. He sat on the edge of Stiles’ bed, but made no move to make himself comfortable. How he still wore his jacket and boots planted a seed of doubt in Stiles mind.

“So, I’m trying to write this paper, right? And I can’t focus on the topic. I can’t bother comparing the books because I’m too keen on the characters.”

Derek arched an eyebrow, but remained silent.

“They’re star-crossed lovers,” Stiles explained, and doubt turned into dread when Derek’s jaw tightened. “Because back then, people believed fate was determined by the stars, so the star-crossed lovers are frustrated by their fate to never be together.”

Derek averted his gaze, somehow found Stiles’ desk more interesting than his face or urgency.

Stiles continued anyway, because at least Derek didn’t leave. “Ashteroth and Rosier called us star-crossed lovers. But we’re together, right?”

Shrugging, Derek said, “If you want us to be.”

And that was not the answer he expected. Stiles snarled, “Damn it, Derek! Do you want me or not?”

But Derek didn’t take the bait of Stiles’ anger; instead, he watched him from the corner of his faintly glowing eye and said, “I’m a hellhound, Stiles. I’m a demon, and I will eventually rip out your soul so you can become a demon, too. It’s not exactly the healthiest context for a relationship.”

“But you said you love me,” Stiles murmured.

“It’s the only word I have for how I feel,” Derek said, helplessly, and how defeated he sounded made Stiles’ heart ache. He braced his elbows against his knees, and his shoulders sagged. “But demons don’t love.”

“Is it because of my feelings for you, then? Why they called us star-crossed lovers?” Stiles frowned. “Because you work for Peter, and my terms are to work for Peter, too, so we’ll still be together in the end. We’re not fated to be apart. We’re fated to be together, in fact.”

Derek steepled his fingers on either side of his nose, sighing into his palms. Weary, sure, but he didn’t contest Stiles—it wasn’t as encouraging as he hoped.

“Did they just say it to fuck with us?” he asked. “Because I guess that would make sense. She said something about ‘letting you have this,’ whatever ‘this’ means and—”

“You!” Derek snapped viciously. “She meant _you_. She meant no one would let me have _you_.”

Stiles recoiled from the hound’s sudden outburst, startled by its intensity. “What could take me away from you?”

“Peter,” Derek said. “Another demon. Anything, Stiles. Anything or anyone who thinks they can get to me through you.”

“You’re a hellhound,” Stiles said with a soft laugh. “What could actually pose a threat to you? Or me, with your protection? And why would someone want to get to you, anyway?”

“Demons don’t experience happiness,” Derek said. Vexed, he scrubbed his face. “Not in a mortal sense. They can experience pleasure, but it’s not the same thing. Joy, happiness—they’re completely incapable. But that doesn’t mean they don’t understand it, or see it in humans, or covet it. And I...I’m happy with you.”

“In the human way?” Stiles hedged.

“As human as I’m capable, which is still more than other demons. They’d want to take that from me—my happiness: you.” With a calculated breath, he added, “So I want to enjoy you for as long as I can. I want you to be happy—”

“I am happy with you.”

“—and stop worrying so much.”

Stiles’ smile pinched painfully, but he forced it anyway. “We’ll be working under Peter together. As long as you can is literally eternity.”

“No,” Derek murmured. “It’s not. But I wish it was.”

Chewing his lip, Stiles asked, “Explain it to me? What am I missing?”

“Nothing,” Derek said, his grin bitter. “You won’t miss anything in Hell.”

“Derek—”

“Write your paper, Stiles,” the hound interrupted.

“I have less than six months to live, Derek!” Stiles shouted, slamming a hand on his desk. “I don’t have time for this shit! Just fucking tell me. Please. I hate when you do this. This cryptic, ominous, unnecessarily stressful bullshit. Don’t do this to me.”

“Once you spend long enough on the rack,” Derek said, reluctantly relenting, “you will become a demon. Do you understand? You will be a demon. A demon. For eternity. Get it?”

“So I won’t be able to love,” Stiles said. “But I’ll remember you, Derek. I’ll remember whatever happens between us and even if I can’t—”

“You won’t remember.”

“What...?”

“You won’t remember me,” the hound explained. His measured tone loaned itself to the fallout he anticipated, and Stiles was ready to shatter. “You won’t remember your family, or your friends, or anything from your life on earth.”

“But you remember,” Stiles argued weakly.

“You’re human,” Derek said.

Frowning, Stiles sniffled through the sudden burn in his eyes, the sting in his sinuses. “So were you.”

Shaking his head, Derek said, “No. I wasn’t.”

“You said, though! You said—”

“That I was _mortal_. I never said I was _human_.”

“Fuck your semantics, Derek,” Stiles spat. “You tell me you care, point to your actions as evidence, then pull this mind-fuckery with me at every turn. Stop withholding, for fuck’s sake. What were you, if not human?”

“A werewolf,” he said simply. “I was born a werewolf.”

Manic laughter bubbled from somewhere deep in Stiles’ twisting gut, overwhelmed by bitter irony and absurdity. Once the runaway train of hysteria left the station, there was no stopping it, so he laughed until his stomach ached. He laughed until he cried. And then, suddenly, he was crying for real—morbid amusement devolving swiftly into consuming grief. He wiped his face on his sleeve and avoided the growing worry in the clench of Derek’s jaw, sobbing and laughing in equal measure. How had he not seen it? How had he not pieced the information together? The night of the basilisk hunt, Derek knew, _intimately_ knew, Scott’s abilities, Scott’s skill level. Initially, Stiles dismissed it to the demonic knowledge imparted to Derek to fulfill his obligations as Stiles’ bodyguard. But now, within this new context...

“...Stiles?”

But he couldn’t respond, not really. His throat was too busy trying to mitigate a cresting wave of emotion that threatened to drown him. Instead, he heaved a gulping breath and launched himself from his desk chair to approach the window. Something about the familiar sight, the usual play of light and dark after sunset, helped him disconnect. By the time Derek stood behind him and rested heavy hands on his shoulders, Stiles wasn’t exactly calm, but the mania had ebbed.

“This,” Derek said, pressing his thumbs into the knobs of Stiles’ neck, “is what I wanted to avoid. I—”

“Shut up, Derek,” Stiles snapped. “Just—shut up. I’m so...this is so fucked up. All of it. Everything. And...fuck!” He punched the wall beside the window, knuckles slamming into a drywall-covered stud, and didn’t flinch through the crack. The pain sparking thorough his hand and into his arm was only thing that felt real.

Solemnly, Derek clasped Stiles’ injured hand within his own, and Stiles resolutely stared out the window as, with tender strokes of his thumb, Derek healed him. “I’m sorry,” Derek said. “Demons lie. Demons are cruel. There’s only so much kindness I’m capable of, but I’ve never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” Stiles sighed, and his anger evaporated in a fog of unease. He’d said he wanted Derek to feel safe with him; he’d said he didn’t want to push him away again; and he meant it. What it meant now, he didn’t know. Derek lived and died as a werewolf, and Stiles knew and fell in love with him as hellhound. How Derek misguided him, how he dodged offering Stiles pertinent information, was at odds with the consideration Derek showed him when they’d first met; Stiles couldn’t figure out if or how much it mattered. The burden of knowledge was great—greater now that he knew he wouldn’t even have Derek in the end. It had been his only solace. He turned to the hellhound and covered their joined hands with his free one. “I just, uh, need some time. To adjust. It’s a lot, you know?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, staring where they touched. “I could go. If you need to be alone.”

Shaking his head, Stiles said, “No. I want every moment possible with you. Is that—” He swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “—I feel like, um, like I have to—Derek, you can stay. Just...yeah.”

“It’s late,” Derek said. “You still have your paper.”

As if in argument, Stiles yawned widely, tucking his face against his shoulder, as his hands were occupied. “Can’t. I need to let my brain process everything, literally, before I can manage anything else.” He pulled his hands from Derek’s and tentatively framed his face. “This doesn’t change anything, though, okay? My feelings for you are the same.”

“Mine, too,” Derek said with a faint nod. He took Stiles by the wrist and kissed his palm, huffing a gentle laugh when Stiles shivered in response. “Go to bed, Stiles.”

“No,” he said, shrugging out of his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. “I need to think.”

“What, then?” the hound pressed.

“Something normal. Something…” Stiles collected his laptop from his desk. “Watch a movie with me? The Jurassic Park trilogy is on Netflix.”

“I loved those as a kid,” Derek said impulsively, cheek pinking immediately after.

Stiles grinned, though it strained his heart. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lines are from "Road Music" found in Richard Siken's _Crush_ , as always.
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)  
> and twitter: [@_foxtricks](http://twitter.com/_foxtricks/)

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)  
> and twitter: [@_foxtricks](http://twitter.com/_foxtricks/)


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